


MK, Gen 2.0

by fogsrollingin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Comforting Dean Winchester, Gen, HARD gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Slave Sam Winchester, Slavery, Undercover Missions, Were-Creatures, Werecats, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-26 01:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fogsrollingin/pseuds/fogsrollingin
Summary: This is the gen version of my ficMoon-kissed!Leviathans led a successful global assault on humanity twenty years ago. The resistance is made up of surviving humans and Luna-borne creatures such as weres. Dean, a Marrow Pack werewolf, runs missions to take down leviathan strongholds and rescue those imprisoned and enslaved there. On this particular mission, Dean is shocked to discover one of the young slaves is a werecat, a species so rare that most weres thought them extinct.





	1. The Cheyenne Club Under a Midnight Silver Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been edited minimally edited to be gen Sam & Dean, not unrelated Sam/Dean as per the original story, [Moon-kissed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159384). Doing this bc I love genfic and this won't take much time to do for those of you who love gen too 🤗
> 
> A thousand kisses to MidnightSilver who literally gave me the most wholesome and gratifying experience writing a fic I’ve ever had. To find their incredible art for this fic, it's all [**here**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068466).
> 
> Second, my beta and sister. Thank you so much for taking the 6+ hours of effort going through polishing this fic with me this weekend (and thank Luna for lazy Sundays). 
> 
> Third, the SPN Dystopia Mods, dreamsfromthebunker and enoliel. You two are absolutely tremendous. Thank you so much for hosting this bang. It was so immensely rewarding. I can't wait to sign up for it again!
> 
> **And to my readers. Happy dark dystopian readings...**
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fanwork has been posted to AO3.org, a website that databases fanworks for free & without ads. If you are told this fic is behind a paywall, that's super false and most definitely a scam. AO3 is a fanworks database run by the Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), a U.S. federal nonprofit. Please consider [donating](https://otw.cividesk.com/civicrm/index.php?q=civicrm/contribute/transact&reset=1&id=17) so they can keep the lights on in here 😊

  


Dean surveyed the “entertainment,” each stationed in their own hideously artistic booths spread over these subterranean fairgrounds. The main floor of the Cheyenne Club was above the vaulted ceiling over Dean’s head, the same music blasting through the speakers onto this basement floor as well. In the center, a huge spinning disco ball spun shafts of rainbow colors over them. But this lower level reeked of pain and desperation underneath the glitzy drug-induced performances from these pleasure slaves. Dean thanked Luna he had taken a low grade suppressant before arriving so his senses couldn’t pick out any more revolting details. He wouldn’t be able to keep his cover otherwise.

Sheldon, a Leviathan and Dean’s sycophantic assistant for the evening, escorted him up and down the labyrinthine crawl. Dean didn’t have to look down at the cement flooring to know there were drains every ten feet or so, originally built as a lab space. The estate itself had been constructed during the cold war as a bunker for top government officials in case of nuclear fallout. There was much more to this place than a single basement bullpen: Dean was sure prisoner cells, auction rooms, and fighting rings were all here. He steeled himself with the single-minded intention to have his own slave for the evening. He had hinted that if Sheldon played his cards right and recommended the best his establishment had to offer, perhaps a full-fledged purchase well over the going rate of any of these creatures could be made. It'd be a decent commission. That was when the Leviathan had gone sycophantic and that suited Dean just fine.

With all the confidence and swagger Dean possessed he strolled along with Sheldon, eyeing every creature and angling his repulsion to seem as though he were flamboyantly contemptuous of the booths and what they held inside. Each creature had a gimmick, their booth set to match. A kitsune dancing with glow-in-the-dark neon body paint. A satyr wrapped in nothing but fake wreaths and ivy leaves. A vampire, nude and squirming around on a bright white floor, spreading red paint to look like blood with their hands. All of them were here against their will, enslaved, their eyes empty and haunted. While Dean would love to hope most of these creatures were hell-borne or hell-bound, supernatural due to how pure the evil was in their blood, he wasn’t under any illusions. He'd seen plenty of clubs like these and he knew the management aggressively sought after neutral or even benevolent creatures because they were more manageable thus made better slaves.

Dean bypassed a small shadowed booth in the corner between a siren dressed in sequins crooning “Blue Moon” into a 1920's style microphone and a chained giant dressed like Tarzan. He hadn't expected his senses to play much of a part at this juncture but he stopped, surprised. There was something wild - something that belonged to the moon and Earth. Something like him.

Dean backtracked and squinted into the tiny area, dark and absent of any alluring hook that Dean could see. It made little sense. Why put a creature on the floor at all if not to display them?

Coming close, Dean could make out the trembling body, kneeling and hunched over in rags. This made even less sense to him now - the creature itself hadn’t even been prepped for display.

"This one," Dean sneered. He stepped over the one-inch lift onto the booth’s platform where the creature knelt. Dean’s senses may have been suppressed but his night vision was still functional enough to sight dried blood and bruises. Dean sniffed furtively and a chill shot through him; raised the hairs on his arms. It was an extension of what he’d felt a few seconds ago only this time stronger: a deep and urgent familiarity.

This was a were of some kind.

Dean swore to himself. This shouldn’t be happening. Nearly all weres in the states were accounted for and protected. How had this one slipped through? And what kind of were was this? By scent, it definitely wasn’t a wolf. Not a bear either. Maybe a fox? Going without his enhanced senses had suddenly annoyed Dean far more than it ever had during these types of operations.

"Sir, are you sure?” Sheldon’s whiny voice grated against Dean’s thoughts and brought him back to the present. “This one is in bad shape since his... last client." 

"Yes I'm sure,” Dean replied and the were - it was a young man, Dean could see - shook. Dean winced with empathy and turned it into an appraising squint. He stepped closer and the slave subtly leaned away but not so much that Dean didn’t notice the twitches and movement along the top of his head. It was almost as though something were nestled inside the matted brown hair. “What…” Dean’s eyes widened when he reached out and touched.

They were ears. Distinctly feline ears pressed low and flat along the sides of the man’s head, a universal fear response in cats.

"A werecat?" Dean whispered, awe-stricken. The slave’s ears pressed themselves even further against his skull. 

Dean stepped back and gave Sheldon his most disdainful glare.

"Why was I not informed you had a werecat?" He gritted out.

"Uh..." Sheldon, clasped at his wrists nervously and shuffled in place. "Werecats weren't in your profile, sir-"

"Because they're practically extinct!" Dean barked. "Take him to a private room. I need to spend some time with him," Dean ordered solicitously with no cruel or lustful intent, forgetting his cover. He cleared his throat. "I need to spend time with him before we... rejoin the... pleasures to be found in the more public spaces," Dean explained further, dripping lecherous charm for Sheldon. It seemed to set the Leviathan at ease.

"Of course, sir. Right away." He simpered.

  


Sam let the guards strip him and spray him down. A couple attendants too young for the display floor washed and oiled his body in the parlor. It was a numbing, impersonal process. Sam betrayed nothing, his expression determinedly blank as they draped a wispy sheath of amber silk over him when they were done. It was a far more delicate, expensive fabric than the rags to which he was accustomed. It slipped and slid over his body against the oils still sinking into lacerated and bruised skin and muscle. It had a slit all the way up the back too for his tail - short, tan, black-tipped and extending from the base of his spine. 

When the john had ordered a private room for them Sam knew he had to be pretty loaded but this preparation was something else.

Sam wondered how Jack was fairing with Tennyson upstairs. It was Jack's first day serving the primary owner and accountant of Cheyenne Club, having been chosen recently by an upper management rep neither of them had seen before. Jack had been whisked away immediately as though his value had only just been realized.

Or maybe the fates felt like cruelty that day, taking away the one thing Sam still loved and protected.

Regardless, Sam bore the anxiety of not knowing. That he had his own survival to think about helped. Jack wasn't the only one between them that had captured the eyes and focus of a higher-up. The leviathan most infatuated with Sam, Sebastian, was the worst of all of them by reputation and in reality. Sam thanked Luna every day the cruel creature hadn't noticed Jack.

Hopefully he would be the only wounded between them tonight and far into the future. He could carry that. He would have to.

But what he always struggled with most was unpredictability and this john - the creature, whatever it was, that had ordered him from the display floor - was unpredictable in the worst sense of the word. Sam was already beaten and injured; he couldn’t take much more. Sebastian only put him on the display floor all night as a form of further punishment to deprive him of sleep, not because he thought a john would actually select him. This was an unexpected development that was making Sam tremble if he thought too much about it. Because no one except a sadist of the highest level would have selected Sam this evening.

Sam closed his eyes and breathed. He was wrested up from his seat in the parlor. As they walked down the hall to the sound-proof suite, Sam promised himself he wasn't going to think about this client until the last minute he had to face it. Sam was a survivor. No other people lived more in the moment than survivors.

However nothing could stop him from trembling when he was ushered into the suite. The executive suite. He'd never been in this room before. Opulent with dark stained oak floors, an old Turkish carpet, a velvet armchair next to a giant four-poster bed with intricate carvings, no windows, and a huge armoire probably full of "equipment.” There were similar cupboards in the lower rent rooms in the East wing where Sam usually served. 

The bed itself was all deep red satin sheets and pillow cases, lighter shades of red cotton linens above those. Sam knew there would be a thin layer of plastic below the fitted sheet. It didn't matter how dressed up the rooms got. They always got messy in the end.

Sam was positioned face down against the pillows. It was a default position when the clients didn’t specify. A lot of the clients didn’t like looking into the slaves’ eyes. It had little to do with guilt and everything to do with how hollow the slaves' eyes were; Sam wasn’t the only one that dissociated. 

The mattress was firm, the bed frame sturdy. His handlers didn't tie his limbs to the bedposts, a blessing, but Sam had laid down spread-eagled anyway, tail close to his body pressed tight along his thigh. He hoped the lack of restraints were due to the john's disinterest in bondage. Then again he might just prefer doing them himself. Sam had to be open and adaptable... and as soon as he'd done enough to satisfy, he would be able to mentally drift for the rest of it.

Sam lay there for awhile trying his best to keep calm. The sounds of two men talking - definitely Sheldon, Sam recognized, and that'd make the other his john - approached and stopped just outside the door.

Sam perfected his posture by tensing everything and gripping the sides of the bed. His heart raced and Sam cursed himself when his breath soon followed suit with rapid shallow inhalations. He hadn't been this scared in awhile. He was in such bad shape already that if this guy was remotely rough Sam might not make it.

Sam clenched his jaw and distanced himself. Vaguely detached, he wondered if Sebastian would care. If in the creature’s infinite capacity to inflict pain upon him and enjoy it, he might find it in himself to save Sam from this john.

But Sheldon was relatively new and didn’t know how deep Sebastian’s fixation on Sam was. There was no reason Sheldon would mention this to Sebastian and Sam hadn't seen anyone else witness this transaction who'd alert Sebastian. He was on his own.

The door opened and Sam could make out the last of their conversation.

"-sure to have a table open and ready for you as soon as you finish up here."

"Don't wait up," the john chuckled darkly. "We might be some time."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep his breath steady. In his mind he repeated the solemn lyrics "que sera sera," a lullaby his mother would sing to him when he’d been young and she’d been alive.

"Take all the time you need and then some, sir," Sheldon replied unctuously.

"Thank you."

The door closed.

Sam couldn't stop himself from holding his breath, straining to hear the creature no doubt still by the door just looking at him. He also couldn't help the minuscule shivers sweeping up and down his spine every few seconds.

The footsteps started forward. Sam didn't dare do or say anything.

"Green in position,” Dean ordered and Sam froze, terrified, wondering what position he’d just been ordered to take when Dean continued, “Executive suite, still level one below. Patch me in when Wings is in position but not before, copy?"

What the hell? Sam made a face into the pillow. Communication devices weren't allowed here. Sam was even pretty sure the club had jammers.

The instinctive curiosity of werecats emerging, Sam repressed his urge to squirm and watch the creature, instead just tilting his head to see out of the corner of his eye. The man - Sam would put him around his middle or late twenties - was taller than most, cutting an imposing figure even standing alone by the door touching his finger to his ear’s comm device. He wore a maroon velvet blazer and fitted black slacks. He had striking vivid green eyes that nearly met his but Sam looked away just in time.

Sam clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and squeezed the sides of the mattress harder as the john approached him. Tremors stole through his body, so bluntly fearful now: just because this creature was breaking the rules with comms didn’t mean the night was going to go any differently for Sam.

Sam tried not to flinch when the bed dipped with the john's weight to his left. The man sighed and Sam gasped and shivered in barely contained panic at the man's touch against the back of his neck.

It was just a warm palm. Sam ruled ‘vampire’ out of the list of creatures this one could be and gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes in anticipation. He'd been subject to client trying to manhandle him by the scruff of his neck like they'd seen cats do with their kittens. It just ended up hurting him as he'd stumble in pain. They'd let go and Sam would finally get to collapse.

This one was doing something different though. He slid his palm along Sam's spine before picking it up off Sam's skin to repeat the gesture at the base of his skull again.

Sam wondered how the man knew to be so careful with keeping his caresses in one specific direction from up to down his body. An instinctive holdover with his other true form, even thinking about rubs _up _his body made him cringe.

Sam never cried but his eyes pricked as the gentle touch worked its magic. Sam wished he was a full human sometimes, able to ignore or even reject soothing touches and the automatic bonds of affection they formed in werecreatures. His only leverage was that this client - whatever creature he was - probably had no idea how deeply this was affecting him. 

Still, they hadn't spoken a single word to one another and already Sam was more anxious than he'd been before. Whether this man knew what he was doing or not, his gentle touches, so careful and affectionate, were tripping Sam's instincts to return them, an atavistic drive to engage further, interact, touch and learn about this creature treating him so well.

And that's why tonight was shaping up to be the most frightening experience Sam had ever had. Because when things got started tonight, Sam was damned. There was no way he could be anything but present and engaged in what would happen tonight. The ability to dissociate was vanishing at every soft stroke of this man’s palm along his damaged body.

Sam's vision misted, and it was anyone’s guess if it was because he wouldn't be able to drift away tonight or because he hadn't been touched like this in years.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," the man said, voice soft, sad. Nevertheless a chill swept up and down Sam's spine with mental sirens and warning lights going off. He'd heard that sentence too many times. He blinked the forming tears away, forced his body to relax.

The man had stopped touching him, pausing as though reading Sam’s thoughts. For a terrifying moment Sam considered whether this creature actually could read thoughts until he remembered the leviathans always screened for psychic ability as a security risk.

"Roll over," the man ordered, still soft and quiet though. Sam pulled out of his thoughts, took a deep breath and turned to lie on his back. He directed his eyes up and around the man's general vicinity. Unfocused, Sam's face remained a perfect mask of mild willingness, arms spread and legs open, the translucent shift he wore creating attractive shadows along the contours of his body.

Sam was braced for the man to lean in; to touch, push, rip the fabric and take. Maybe some painful extras, some fucked up surprises along the way perhaps hidden in the armoire but Sam knew the general road map.

So he was shocked when the guy looked him up and down then let out a disgusted grunt and moved from the bedside to the deep red velvet armchair next to it.

It struck Sam then that this creature hadn't gotten a great look at him when he'd chosen him, his face in particular. Launching into an internal panic over what it was about him that was so repulsive to this guy wasn't fun. If Sam got rejected and kicked out of this suite right now, the punishment was standard that he'd know hunger for a week.

Was it something about being a werecat? His ears - black fur on the outside, tan and white hairs on the inside - couldn't be it. The john had discovered he was a werecat by way of his ears and ordered him here so if anything they were the main selling point. Maybe it was Sam’s tail but the john had already seen his tail when he'd walked in on the sight of Sam prone on the bed.

It had to be Sam's eyes. They were bigger than humans' with a unique structure and so many colors: irises a bright gold with some unusual spots of light greens and shades of blue. They rested large upon high cheekbones, one of which was bruised if Sam recalled his last glance at his reflection correctly.

Maybe that was the problem? His body was still marked from past johns?

But Sheldon had warned him. Surely he'd seen-

"What's your name?" the man asked, his voice rough now. One arm was across his stomach, the other covering his mouth.

Sam's eyes flitted to the creature’s, took in its posture. Nothing denoted contempt but rather something more like grim interest; his posture indicated… nausea, maybe? Nausea wasn’t a good sign but Sam still allowed some measure of patient optimism. The evening could still be saved. Sam shot another furtive glance at the john’s eyes and realized they weren’t just vivid. They had a low simmering glow deep inside them.

‘Witch’ hit the top of Sam’s list of possible creatures this client could be.

"Hey, kiddo. What’s your name?" He repeated evenly, leaning forward. 

"S-Sam.”

The man nodded and tiredly washed a hand down his face before abruptly coming to a stand. Sam froze in terror as the man bent over him. 

But instead of any more touching the john took the expensive sheets Sam was lying on, gestured to Sam to lift up so he could get them out from under him, and before Sam could come up with any sick ideas for what this could mean for him, the guy started covering him up with them.

  


Dean was ready to throw up as he let the linens fall over Sam’s brutalized body, effectively discontinuing the nudity that had allowed him to see details that had his stomach roiling. The sight of the kid - because Dean realized the werecat had to be mid-twenties tops - was nauseating, how he’d been prepped; all the bruises and scrapes littering his body were glistening with oil, a palette of shiny purples, reds, blacks and blues painted his tan skin. And the werecat's tail wrapped so tightly along his thigh telegraphing so much pain and fear. When the were had rolled over onto his back, the expression plastered over his face had disturbed Dean just as much if not more. Blank like a doll with fissures of pure terror breaking through whenever Dean would do something unexpected. 

"Sam," Dean repeated, knowing it’d mean something to say his name with fondness. "Sam. It's a really nice name," Dean complimented. The kid was trembling, eyes darting everywhere as Dean took things as steady and careful as possible. “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast” Dean repeated to himself in his mind. Totally different practical application of the special forces slogan but it worked with trauma survivors nonetheless. Move too fast and run into a trap of the survivor’s presumptions that Dean had no way of predicting. But no movement at all and get pinned as no better than the rest of the kid’s abusers.

Dean didn’t speak or try for eye contact, just deftly pressed Sam’s legs closed under the blankets then sat against the edge of the bed again to pull the sheets all the way over Sam’s chest. He went back to Sam’s feet and began tucking him in. It allowed him some time to think.

With how Sam had been treated, it was clear the leviathans had no idea how rare werecats were and how precious Sam would be to werecreatures everywhere. Dean allowed a small shiver over how much leverage they could’ve had over weres if they’d known. But that didn’t excuse Crowley, the crossroads demon who’d run reconnaissance and given his intel report last week. Crowley knew how meaningful it would’ve been if they’d known a werecat was being kept here at the Cheyenne Club. Their mission would’ve shifted entirely in objective. Dean hid his fury over his suspicions that Crowley was planning to find Sam during the chaos of the main raid and whisk him off for his own demonic purposes before the Marrow Pack could even realize what he was much less find him and get him home.

With an imperceptible shake of his head Dean resolved not to think about it. He had bigger priorities. He finished tucking the kid in and focused on his name again. Sam. It fit.

"How about Sammy?" He asked softly, looking up. The kid flinched, strung tight as a cord. His arms were still stretched out like he was on a cross and Dean winced. He took the kid’s hands - cold and limp as dead fish - folded them over his chest. Dean pressed his palms over Sam’s, trying to warm them up, aching over the knowledge that all weres ran hot.

“Just Sam,” he gulped, his breath uneven, a sheen of sweat visible over his brows, slipping down his temples.

Dean gave a quick attempt at a smile. He bit his lip, unsure of where to go from here. If he continued to touch and pet Sam like he had earlier and like he instinctively wanted to then the kid would prove more malleable just like any were under warm and tender touch. While it was in Dean’s nature to do it and moreover in a way Sam was just as naturally inclined to accept, Dean finally dismissed further touching as an option. It felt manipulative and even unreliable: what if other creatures had discovered this potential weakness in weres and used it on Sam before? In that case Sam would melt under his touch but Dean would never gain the loyalty or trust of his mind. 

So Dean pulled his hands away from Sam. The kid was wrapped snug in the soft silk and cotton linens and it mildly satisfied that part of Dean that needed him to be warm. The kid’s huge kaleidoscopic eyes watched unblinking as Dean situated himself lower on the bed to sit near Sam’s hips.

"I'm Dean." Dean pressed a hand against his chest. He noticed Sam’s eyes widened at every gesture and made a point to be conscious how and where he moved his hands from now on. If he couldn’t reassure Sam by touch, it had to be by these minor movements and behaviors. It wouldn’t be so difficult. Dean was a predator but only to prey… and Sam wasn't prey. Sam was just about the farthest possible thing from prey. He was kin. When all this was over Dean would be taking him home - his home, the protective and nurturing grounds of the Marrow Pack.

Their futures were already so deeply intertwined and the poor were didn’t even know it yet. Dean pressed his lips into a line, holding it together as he observed Sam's hands gripping the edges of the blankets tight. Dean looked up with watery eyes and prayed to Luna he could do this right. He checked his watch and reminded himself he had more than enough time. Cas wasn’t even in the club yet and he was designated to make the first hostile move once in position with Tennyson.

Dean always had the option to go in later around the same time as Cas but the last place they'd taken down Dean had needed more time with the ghoul slave he’d chosen. She didn’t trust him by the time Cas was in position to move and she’d turned out to be more of a liability than an asset. She was in Salem now in a small community of ghouls that fed off Leviathan slaughterhouse scraps.

So it was a lesson that Dean learned: he needed more time. Always as much time as he could plausibly get with a slave. Because when things went right, the intel Dean would recover saved far more lives than it ever jeopardized: nobody knew a compound’s management and layout like the slaves.

In retrospect Dean was immensely grateful for every step taken that had led up to this one. He’d need this time for Sam, the first werecat he'd ever met who was also tragically the first enslaved werecreature he’d ever met.

"Look..." Dean trailed off, nervous, wondering where he should begin. He wanted to blurt he was a were too, that he was here to save him. But the kid’s eyes were far too intelligent and skeptical to believe it. Dean would have to prove it at some point instead. So, where to start? It was just him and this scared kid with two sets of ears and mesmerizing eyes in a lavish suite thinking Dean was capable of unspeakable violations. Dean licked his lips, trying to think of the lowest-hanging fruit that could inspire trust. His eyes explored the room and fell upon the nightstand.

"I got it,” Dean breathed, pressing his hands on top of his thighs so he wouldn’t make any quick gestures. He didn’t realize how much he spoke with his hands until he couldn’t. “I'm going to order some food," he said as he leaned over slow and took the menu from the bedside table. Sam’s cat’s eyes tracked him but for the first time he didn’t flinch at Dean’s movements. Dean looked up for a fleeting moment to smile in response then flipped the menu open. Okay. So far so good. Next step. Promising no harm would come to Sam had proved a disaster just by the kid’s body language after he’d said it. Dean had been disturbed by what that implied: most monsters didn’t lie so most slaves found his promises reassuring. Sam had to have had severely unfortunate experiences with those monsters which did lie. Monsters that lied for fun enjoyed mind games, deeper psychological tortures. Dean had to move on from that train of thought there. It was doing him no good. On the upside, Dean had no reason to believe Sam would be different from any other slave in desperately wanting to know what Dean _did _want from them. That was actionable. Dean could give him that.

“Sam,” Dean started by looking at him, then turned away. He thought about his cats that roamed the pack lands; how they were so averse to direct attention sometimes. So Dean fixed his gaze on the menu. “The only thing I want from you tonight is information."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Sam’s ears, camouflaged by his long tangled hair all night so far, instantly perk up. Dean suppressed a smile. 

  


Sam felt his ears betray him. He squinted his eyes warily, jutted his chin, and scowled to compensate. 

Dean needed information from him, he was communicating on a device that’s supposed to be jammed by the club, he’d covered Sam with blankets, asked his name, briefly pet him like he cared, and now he was walking over to the telephone mounted to the wall between the armoire and the bathroom. Sam bit his lip, eyes wet despite himself as he listened to the honest-to-god words the man was speaking into the receiver.

"Yeah, room service. Yeah hi, can I get a cheeseburger with fries, and..." Dean glanced at Sam, eyes narrowed in thought, "do you guys have a meat plate? Charcuterie type of thing?"

Sam just blinked at him.

Dean finished up the call.

"Fifteen minutes." Dean rubbed his hands together and settled down in the armchair. They remained quiet. Sam’s eyes wandered, trying to ignore how the air felt charged. But it was a somber quiet as well. Normally Sam was perceptive but he couldn’t quite put his finger down on the mood. “Does it hurt to hear with two sets of ears?”

Sam was so surprised by the soft-spoken question he looked into Dean’s eyes and found nothing but compassion.

Sam had barriers but not against kindness. Not against empathy, a sentiment he only knew from Jack these days. But Jack’s were different from this man’s because Jack relied upon Sam to diminish the perception of suffering, whether his own or Jack’s or just stemming from their circumstances once they’d been captured back in Des Moines. Sam flourished under that pressure because it was a way to delude himself too. But this man, Dean… his eyes and expression depended on Sam for nothing but the truth. Sam could tell him everything - all the agony and trauma and hate he had in his heart - and it’d be okay; Dean would understand. And suddenly Sam was overwhelmed by a scent of pure comfort and familiarity before it completely vanished.

Sam shook his head, sure he’d imagined it, and wiped his face free of a tear that’d inexplicably fallen. What the hell…

“What do you want to know,” Sam sniffled, disoriented but ready to get down to business. If the john wanted information Sam would give it and be done with this job. Go back to his crawl space of a booth on the display floor, forgotten in the dark where he could cry over his losses because that brief scent of something like _home _was unraveling him no matter how much he was trying to dismiss it as a figment of his imagination.

“Not yet,” Dean waved smoothly and Sam blinked back tears of frustration. “Stay with me, Sam," Dean coaxed and again Sam's chest tightened over the sweetness of the man's tone. "So, where I come from there's these ancient myths about werecreatures."

Sam swallowed and looked away, bracing for the other shoe to drop, expecting to hear the worst falsehoods over werecreatures’ natures that would lead to the justification of his abuse tonight.

"There's a place w-they go after they die.”

Sam would’ve noticed the slip in Dean’s chosen pronouns if he wasn’t immediately filled with the terror by his implicit threat of death. His newfound fear must’ve shown.

“No no no, listen Sam,” Dean leaned forward and Sam let him take his trembling hand. “Just listen, sweetie.”

Sam scoffed and rolled his wet eyes.

“Sammy-?” Dean wheedled humorously, stroking the top of Sam’s hand. Sam clenched his jaw against the touch.

“Better than ‘sweetie’ I guess,” Sam replied sullenly, reluctantly loosening up under Dean’s ministrations.

“Sammy,” Dean chuckled kindly then let go of Sam’s hand. Sam hated he wanted the touches back. He hated he liked the way Dean said ‘Sammy.’ 

“So after weres die, people say they go to a place called Purgatory. But weres? Weres call it Luna's Kingdom.”

Sam could feel his ears opening wider to listen and he even let himself meet Dean’s eyes for a little longer.

“When you get there, you have to fight all kinds of creatures. All of Eve’s creatures. Eve is most supernatural creatures’ mother, but not werecreatures’.” Dean stopped there and tilted his head, eyes wide open with curiosity and hope. An image of German Shepherd puppies trying to figure out a new sound came unbidden to the forefront of Sam’s mind for comparison. It was a pretty good match. 

Sam didn’t know what to say though - what to offer Dean’s expectant, curious look in return - so he just nodded. He was following Dean’s story well enough.

“It’s bleak and dismal at first and all you know is fighting and surviving. It’s what everybody envisions with the word ‘Purgatory.’ But then,” Dean lifted his finger up. “Then you realize you’ve been going a certain direction the whole time. You’ve never doubled back or circled around by accident. You’ve been gaining ground this whole time to a place you didn’t know you were going until you get there.”

“Where?” Sam breathed, curiosity piqued. He ignored the fleeting expression of wistful sadness in Dean.

“Luna’s Kingdom has its own smaller kingdoms for each of her creations. Weres have their own called the Luna Packlands. Every species earns their place in their kingdom by fighting and surviving long enough to get there. And once you do, you get to live and play safely with all other weres for the rest of your immortal life.” 

Sam chewed his lip and pressed his fingers against the blankets. “That sounds nice,” he whispered. Dean smiled.

“I think so too.”

A sharp rap at the door startled them both, Sam shrinking further against the bed, and Dean springing to his feet and pivoting, aligning himself so he’d break any line of vision from the door to Sam. Sam registered Dean’s protective stance. It was alien to him, puzzling but… not in a bad way. 

Another knock. “Sir, room service.” Dean broke from his position with a small chuckle, stepping over and opening the door just slightly. Sam’s ears twitched as he lifted his head up to hear.

“Let me see the food,” Dean asked as though it were perfectly normal. The staffer complied in silence though so maybe it was. “Great. You can’t bring the table in here though. I’ll carry the food in myself, please leave it by the wall here.” Dean instructed casually.

“Sir, I give you my word there is nothing I haven’t seen before in that room. There is nothing to be ashamed of here at the Cheyenne.”

Sam winced. That voice belonged to Ramsay. Equal parts sadistic and masochistic, Ramsay was a skinwalker whose loyalty and love of the club had elevated his position from slave to waitstaff.

“Understood. Now get out of here.”

“Sir,” Ramsay retorted and Sam watched Dean’s body tense, pushing his shoulders back, stance widening. “If I were to see what you have done to the werecat in there, I wouldn’t even think anything untoward about your… treatment of him.” Sam cringed and pressed his hands to his face. If Dean had even the smallest desire to inflict harm upon Sam and needed a nudge, Ramsay would smell it and get through that door. Sam pressed against his bruises as the skinwalker pressed on. “Whatever state he’s in, sir, it would be my plea-”

“Please stop there,” Dean interrupted and Ramsay did. Sam was shocked by the restrained promise of violence in it. “Go… away.”

“Very good, sir,” Ramsay muttered, cowed, before Sam heard the cart shuttle to a stop along the wall. Small quick successive steps disappeared down the hall. Dean went out of sight for a second and Sam blinked in disbelief. That had just happened.

Dean pushed the door open with his back, the giant plate of meats and cheeses requiring both hands just by sheer surface area. He set it down on the center of the bed. Sam scrambled up, covers slipping off him as he pressed against the headboard as though the plate were about to bite him. Panicked eyes flitted between Dean and the food.

Dean opened his mouth as though to say something but shut it just as fast. “Okay,” he breathed, “Just a sec.” He put his index finger up and then rushed back out… to the cart for more food, Sam figured. He took the time to calm down. He didn’t know exactly why he’d reacted that way to so much food just landing in front of him. He never would have imagined that’d be his reaction. He stared at the platter and let the impact of it finally take hold of him.

As messed up as it was, he was relaxed by the familiar hunger building up in him. It oriented him; anchored him back down to where he was.

Dean came back in with a smaller plate with a metal cover over it. He set it down on the seat of the velvet armchair and turned, resolute, to face Sam. He started talking as he unbuttoned his velvet blazer and Sam fought the anxiety of seeing this man disrobing by focusing on his words.

“Sammy, I’m trying to tell you something as tactfully as possible. Those ancient myths aren’t myths, and only werecreatures know about it.”

Sam froze. Did Dean hunt weres?

Is that why he was so intense the instant he discovered Sam was a werecat? Sam was the last of a practically extinct type of were and now Dean got to kill the last one? Was that plate for him his last meal? Had Dean been kind to him so far simply because he knew he’d be mercy-killing him by the end of their time together?

Sam didn’t realize he’d started to gasp and shake under the weight of his thoughts. He curled up, knees pressed to his forehead, weakly pressing his back against the headboard. Tears slipped down his face and crying would’ve meant he had enough air… 

Sam vaguely heard the sound of Dean’s voice but none of his words or tone. The ceiling of his world was collapsing and Sam just wanted it over with now, the state of his mind and current life, all his decisions and life events leading him up to this one moment of happenstance where a lone wealthy hunter had found him to kill-

Sam felt something, a light fabric of some kind, drop over his shoulders. He took his next gasping breath and suddenly calm clarity slammed back into him. That fleeting scent he’d noticed before - that pure comfort, familiarity, home scent washing over him in heavy waves of every inhale.

Sam tugged on it, wrapping himself further in. It was slippery smooth on the inside and fuzzy on the outside. Sam’s cries tapered off as he strove to breathe deeper, to let the scent carry itself into him and do its work; hold him steady and build his strength. For the love of Luna, it was so much stronger than nostalgia. It felt like a tangible reminder of the love he’d experienced when he’d been home among his kind, his parents, his childhood friends.

Before the massacre of their territory.

He’d only been a kitten.

Dean’s smooth tone filtered into his awareness, then his words.

“-okay, you’re all right. Everything’s gonna be fine. I would definitely be crying if it was my first time I’d smelled another were in years, even if it is a pretty weak scent. But actually the suppressant might be wearing off by now so maybe it’s stronger than I thought it’d be, I don’t know. Might need to take another one, or like half of one. Maybe-” and Dean just carried on talking to himself, his tone never wavering from softness but the words themselves were just an idle inner monologue. 

“You’re a were?” Sam finally choked out, looking up at Dean under wet lashes. Dean stopped talking and looked up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed and his eyes glowed greener. Sam hadn’t been imagining that only it wasn’t a witch, it was the suppressed glow of a were’s natural eyes under an intense, instinctive emotion. Sam had forgotten that was an aspect of weres’. His eyes had been dull for years.

Dean nodded. “Wolf,” he supplied, eyes alight. Sam swallowed nervously but dared to openly look at the man anew. He’d never met another were since the massacre, having escaped and then survived alone as a kid then a teenager, picking his way through the desolate rubble and debris of abandoned cities and suburbs. He’d become a fantastic scavenger and a clever defensive fighter when he’d occasionally encounter hostiles of all shapes and sizes. Either as a result of fortune or misfortune - Sam would find out by dawn - neither allies nor enemies he’d encountered had ever been were.

Dean’s blazer was gone; he was just in the black button-up now. He’d undone a couple buttons at the top and rolled the cuffs up. It was informal, almost vulnerable, and Sam, feeling uncharacteristically confident with that scent emanating from the fabric draped over him sparking something within him he didn’t even know he’d had, asked another question.

“What are you here for?”

“I’m Marrow Pack leadership. Our operation was to infiltrate the Cheyenne Club,” Dean clipped off the end of the sentence like there was more but he was holding back. Sam noticed. Dean knew Sam noticed. He stuck to his silence though.

“…_ was _your operation?” Sam asked, wondering at his own boldness.

Dean’s mouth twitched like he was restraining a smile. He shrugged, his expression going neutral. “Well, it still is.” 

Sam studied Dean and opened his mouth to ask something else but Dean cut him off before he could. “Eat,” he ordered, and pointed at the charcuterie. Sam's eyes narrowed. “I’m not fucking with you. Dig in,” Dean insisted.

Sam tracked Dean as he got up to get his own food from the seat of the armchair. He deliberately ignored Sam’s gaze as he put the metal cover on the floor and sat down in the armchair with the plate in his lap.

Sam shifted uncomfortably at the sight. There was no doubt lingering in Sam's mind whether Dean was a wolf or not just by virtue of the way he ate. 

How the hell had Dean, a werewolf, gotten into the Cheyenne Club? Growing up alone without any kind of schooling or traditional education, it was actually through the Cheyenne Club and the other slaves that Sam had learned quite a lot, including modern history. Twenty years ago the Leviathans surfaced on Earth and strategically positioned themselves for an effective strike against human civilization. The genocide of humanity was finished in scant months, cutting the global population down to less than a third of what it’d been. Werewolves - like all other supernatural creatures - came out into the open quickly after that. Only unlike most of them, werewolves joined the surviving human resistance in fighting against the Leviathan. It was for several reasons, the most important one being they - like all weres - had moral compasses similar to humans’. Since they were the largest population of weres and the most organized, the werewolves came out on top after they battened down the hatches of their packlands and territories, accepted their allies through their barriers, and fought Leviathans with deft strategy that hadn’t failed them yet. Sam was told other creatures like werebears, werefoxes, and even selkies often requested werewolf shelter for help or backup for any assaults or battles to be mounted against the Leviathan. So Sam was surprised Dean had managed to get in to a leviathan club like this. Weres - but werewolves in particular - were Leviathans’ most threatening enemies in this day and age.

He took a breath, glanced down, and finally realized the fabric around him was Dean’s velvet blazer. With vague embarrassment, he examined it. This was so distinctly Dean’s scent. He never would’ve thought anyone other than perhaps another werecat could smell like kin in this manner but apparently it was all weres. Sam thought back to earlier when Dean had been talking, he’d said he’d taken a suppressant. That must’ve been how he’d gotten into the Cheyenne Club without anyone smelling him. But it must have worn off like crazy if his jacket was any indication. 

“This really smells,” Sam murmured, concerned, feeling along the lapel.

“Thanks,” Dean laughed. 

“No, I mean. They’ll know. They’ll know if you get close to them. Like Ramsey…” Sam trailed off, confused by Dean shaking his head.

“No no, don’t worry. The only reason you can smell it so well is first because you haven’t smelled another were in…” Dean winced, “awhile,” he finished comically. “Two, because weres smell weres way better than any other creature, and three because the suppressant is wearing off but not enough just yet to be noticeable by non-were creatures,” Dean explained and Sam relaxed as he followed along. When he was done, Dean took a huge bite of his cheeseburger. “You know, you can put it all the way on. And then eat,” Dean garbled, his mouth disgustingly full. Sam grimaced, which caused Dean to laugh which offered Sam an even wider view of the wolf's masticated food. 

Sam looked away, somewhat confused he was holding back a smile of his own. He put his arms through the sleeves and inched his way forward to the platter on the bed, leaned in and hovered to scent the meat. His mouth watered and he picked at the slices of glazed ham first. When the taste hit him, Sam couldn’t help but whimper and kneel up further over the food. 

“Take your time, Sammy, don’t rush. It can hurt if you eat too much when you haven’t eaten in awhile.”

Well-acquainted with the phenomenon, Sam nodded in acknowledgment, eyes sparkling with gratitude. 

With that, they fell upon their food in mutual silence. Sam ate the entire platter without needing any further word of caution from Dean. When Sam was done, Dean gave him fries he’d pulled off his platter and saved for him. Sam just stared at him, disbelief fighting the rising trust this man was building between them.

"How do you half-shift?" Dean asked suddenly, throwing Sam for another loop. 

“I uh… I can’t,” Sam tucked himself further into Dean’s jacket before pushing the blankets away to reveal his ankle. A delicate metal brace wrapped around it, intricate symbols traced in the metal. "It’s a cursed object. Paralysis. Keeps me like this, mid-shifted.”

Dean leaned closer, examining it. 

“Does it hurt?” He looked up just in time to spot Sam hiding his face. “Hey,” Dean placed his palm along his foot. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

“Yeah,” Sam finally answered, voice surprisingly firm due to the unmistakable undercurrent of anger in it. “All the time. I haven’t been able to shift into either of my true forms for years.” His chin trembled and his voice quavered towards the end. He’d never said it out loud before and now that he had it was like a heavy weight slamming into him, the words of such blatant endless torture causing him to realize even more the nightmare he was living. 

Dean just nodded with undivided attention, the light in his eyes having diminished, their color now mossy but brimming with compassion on Sam’s behalf.

  


Just Dean’s expression alone threatened to break Sam. He looked away, wiped tears from his cheeks and rubbed the salty wetness off his fingers bitterly. “I wouldn’t shift on command, so.” Sam shrugged and looked up to stave off any further tears. He noticed bloodstains in the wood and stared at the shapes they made. 

“Sammy, come on,” Dean said, voice low. Sam felt the were’s hand on his ankle. It settled him so quickly he could hardly believe it. When Dean next spoke he was centered, attentive. “Okay, Sammy. How do we get this off you? Or stop it from working?”

Sam sniffed as he nodded, “Yeah, okay, um,” he shifted so he could take a look at it again with Dean. “I think there’s a key but I know the witch who made this. He’s weak. You could probably just shoot it off. I’d heal the minute I could finish a shift.”

“Okay,” Dean dragged out, fiddling with it. Sam watched and held his breath, trying to maintain composure as Dean slipped a finger under and pulled to see how much space he had to work with. “I don’t have a gun on me,” Dean muttered distractedly as he angled the brace looking for any symbols sketched on the inside.

Sam would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. “We’ll get it off though," Dean added casually and Sam was almost ashamed how fast the hope surged back up in him.

He fought the onslaught of questions pouring into his mind just with that one simple… promise? Was it a promise? It sounded more like a fact. Thrown out breezily like Dean didn’t understand what he was actually saying.

“Uh, okay. When?”

Dean looked up quickly, put his hands up. “When I get a gun.” He grinned.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, then shook his head clear. “Right. Okay.” He coughed and pulled some of the blankets up over his legs. He was getting cold. “There’s an armory in the west wing.” 

“We know about that,” Dean nodded. “What about Tennyson’s office?”

Sam eyed Dean. “Yeah, Tennyson probably has one. Is he, uh. The main guy you came for?”

Dean leaned forward and nodded slowly. He tilted his head. “What is it?” He asked, unnaturally perceptive.

“There’s another slave here. Jack. We got captured together a few years ago.”

“Okay,” Dean said patiently. 

“He’s with Tennyson tonight.”

Dean’s brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line as though he completely understood the desperation and weight in Sam’s implicit request. Without warning he pressed against his ear, tilting his head to the side. “Come in, Fahrenheit. Green checking in. Report?” Dean remained still for awhile, listening. “Copy. Updating with an alert. There’s a slave named Jack,” he enunciated, “at Wings’ position. He’s an asset.” Another pause. “That is correct. Over and out.” 

Dean tapped his ear on a sigh while Sam gaped.

“What kind of creature is Jack?” Dean asked. _After_ he’d made the order to protect Jack. 

Just on Sam’s word alone Dean had told someone on his team to protect Jack.

“Sam, c’mon,” Dean was suddenly hovering near dropping blankets around him. “You’re shivering.” 

“I’m… this isn’t…” Sam stuttered, tightening his grip on the velvet that smelled like home while Dean bundled him up further.

“I know. It’s shock. It’s okay, sweetie,” Dean added under his breath, so low Sam decided he’d ignore it just this once. He ducked his head as Dean pulled a sheet up along the back of his neck. “Better?” 

Sam nodded.

“Okay kiddo, here’s the plan. We’re gonna stay in this room for awhile still. One of my team’s gonna take out Tennyson and protect Jack. Then it’s gonna get loud, okay? Busy. Smoky. When I get the all clear on my radio,” Dean touched his earpiece and Sam nodded in understanding, “we’re gonna keep our heads down and make our way to the nearest exit.” 

“What about Jack?”

“Jack’s gonna be with Cas and Cas is gonna get him out of here the same way I’m getting you out of here, okay?”

Sam had so many questions he just shook his head. “What… what about the rest of the slaves?”

“We’ll be getting them out, just not as fast as you and Jack. Are some of them human?”

Sam nodded distractedly. “Yes.”

“Okay. At least our intel was accurate on that.”

“How are you handling Sebastian?”

“Who?”

Sam’s eyes widened. “You… you don’t know about Sebastian?” he whispered.

Dean’s brows furrowed as he gave a confused shake of his head.

“Tennyson’s important. He’s head manager. But… Sebastian.” Sam swallowed, "Sebastian is the main one, the most powerful one. The leader.”

They shared a look and Dean tapped his ear again. “Come in, Fahrenheit.”

Dean proceeded to inform his team their intel was compromised. Someone named Crowley had missed the less visible leader of the Cheyenne Club. Fahrenheit received Dean’s intel and confirmed understanding there was a new second target with the whole team.

“Sam, where’s Sebastian’s office?” Dean whispered.

“Couple levels below… by our barracks.” 

“That where he’d be now?”

Sam gave an apologetic shrug. Dean relayed with clarity. “Copy,” he finished, then looked at Sam. “We’re all on standby.”

He washed a hand down his face.

“I’ve never seen this,” he shook his head, then looked to Sam for more answers Sam hoped he could give. “Why’s this leviathan so powerful but he’s quartered by slaves?” Dean figured this must be how Crowley missed the creature; it was virtually unheard of for leadership to spend much time by the slaves’ barracks.

Sam frowned, grim. “He could do anything here but he chooses to stay near us. He,” Sam swallowed, struggling to get it out, “he likes… um…” Sam trailed off, eyes watering.

Dean huffed with disgust, startling Sam. “Say no more,” he muttered as he got up and paced. He stopped.

“Does he come when Tennyson calls?”

Sam shook his head. “More the other way around.” 

Dean bit his lip on a frown and nodded, went back to pacing.

“Tell me more about him. Nothing… no,” Dean insisted, seeing the stricken look on Sam’s face. “Just… we need to find him, get him into an actionable position for taking him down as quickly as possible. So… I just want to know what’ll make him move, you know? What kind of problem or decoy would get his attention.” 

The color drained from Sam’s face.

“The main floor. Would… that be a good position?” 

Dean winced and look up in thought. “We could make that work. Why? What’ll get him on the main floor?”

Sam shivered as he took Dean’s jacket off, cutting himself off from all the comfort and strength it’d been lending him ever since Dean had slipped it on, and offered it back to the werewolf. 

“Me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see all MidnightSilver's amazing artwork for this fic, click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068466)
> 
> For my tumblr (bc I wants friends), click [here](https://fogsrollingin.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading - please kudos+comment if you've got a minute! ❤️️


	2. An Operative Is Born

Dean winced and pushed the jacket back. “You can just hold it, just hold it for me, Sammy,” Dean murmured. Sam sniffed and relented, clutching it back against his chest. “What do you mean, you?”

“Sebastian’s… focused on me. He… If he found out you had me, he’d come.” 

“Why hasn’t he come already?”

“Private suites are more discreet,” Sam hedged, then breathed, “and Sheldon’s an idiot. I wasn’t meant to be rented from the display floor.”

Dean rubbed his chin and nodded. He understood now why Sam had been in an unlit booth with no gimmick. The thought of a leviathan possessive and hurting Sam disturbed him far more than he would’ve expected, even accounting for the speed with which weres could connect.

“Sam,” Dean strained, “I don’t want you anywhere near this monster. You’re done. You’re gonna be out in a few-”

“Jack’s with Tennyson!” Sam interrupted wildly, so loud even his own eyes widened with surprise. He squeezed Dean’s suit jacket and squared his jaw. “I’m not leaving until I know he’s safe and nobody is safe until Sebastian’s taken down.”

Sam was left heaving, stressed fidgeting, wide eyes watching for any signal from Dean that’d indicate retaliation for crossing a line; forgetting his place.

Dean put his palms up. Carefully, he reached out to take hold of Sam’s.

“Okay. Relax,” he whispered. Sam’s pleading eyes looked back at him as he returned the pressure on Dean’s hand. Understanding and agreement passed through them. 

Dean tapped his communications device to open the channel.

“Fahrenheit, Green and company can rendezvous to the main floor and draw Target Two out. Acknowledge.” Dean listened to his team agree on that course of action. Charlie quickly summarized the new plan and all confirmed their understanding. Dean watched Sam worrying at his lip and hugging his suit jacket, ears down low and twitching as he stared unseeing at the mattress.

Sam was traumatized. This was a risk. But Dean knew the power and strength that came out of the kind of protective love Sam clearly had for Jack. With that, he wasn’t so traumatized and this wasn’t too bad a risk. He hoped.

All was confirmed over comms.

“Okay. It’s set,” Dean murmured to Sam. “We’ve got about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes until it’s show time.” Sam nodded and glanced up at him through messy hair, ears low, looking guilty as though his outburst had been wrong. Dean shook his head at the impression and reached his hand out, massaged Sam’s bony shoulder. “It’s okay. This is bravery, Sam. You’re amazing. Just breathe. Breathe with me,” and he did. Dean’s warmth and reassurance seeped into the kid as he held tight to the textured velvet. A few more seconds of calm quietude and Dean thought okay, time to start a conversation about something upbeat, something that might make Sam smile.

“You didn’t tell me before - what kind of creature is Jack?”

“He’s a nephilim.” 

Dean whistled. “What are you, running a rare species anonymous club?”

Sam huffed. “If I were I wouldn’t host it here,” Sam quipped back.

Dean laughed, delighted. Sam was witty.

“A nephilim. This’ll be good. Cas - his call name’s Wings, you probably heard me on comms - is an angel. He’d protect Jack even if he didn’t know his name just by sensing his grace in the room.” 

“Really?" Sam dared to ask, hope filling some color into his gaunt face.

“Really,” Dean smiled.

"Even if it's not much grace?”

"What do you mean?" 

"They took most of his grace so he couldn't rebel."

Dean's brows furrowed but he nodded. "He'll find him, Sam."

Sam swallowed and nodded. He kept his eyes on Dean, a rare thing. Dean tilted his head. “What?" 

“How’s an angel fighting with you? I thought they abandoned everybody when humans fell down the food chain.”

“Ha,” Dean breathed, “the angels abandoned everybody when _angels _fell down the food chain.”

Dean was starting to read Sam much better like when he watched the kid raise his eyebrows slightly, the merest movement speaking volumes over how curious he was to know more.

“Even before the leviathans, angels were no… well, angels,” Dean chuckled. He watched Sam loosen and unfold, his interest drawing him out. It was satisfying to see. It fostered Dean’s nascent hope that Sam’s curiosity and wit would surface as his defining traits one day. It was gratifying too on another more selfish level: Sam’s inquisitiveness perfectly complemented Dean’s own predilection for storytelling. “So,” he started, pulling away from touching Sam, letting him just settle back on his own. “Twenty, twenty-five years ago, okay? When there were no leviathans, humans got to eat apple pie with vanilla ice cream, weres were living in their own quiet territories and packlands, and evil supernatural monsters would get snuffed out by only a small group of individuals that just called themselves ‘Hunters.’” Dean tilted his head and Sam nodded his understanding. “At some point, the feathery bastards - angels,” he clarified when Sam made a face, “realized their absentee father was, y’know, absent, and decided a biblical apocalypse was in order. In the midst of roiding themselves out to fight a fight that would rapture all creatures on Earth away, one particular angel knock-knock-knocked on _purgatory’s _door for some soul power of the Luna variety. Instead, came out infested with leviathans.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “That’s how this whole thing started?” He breathed, taken aback.

Dean nodded and grinned bitterly. He was quick to notice then ignore Sam’s boldness to speak like that, like they were in a normal conversation. He didn’t want Sam to realize and close himself off. “That is indeed the whole kit and caboodle how leviathans got here, how we live in this… modern world of wonder,” Dean said dryly but with a charming spark in his eye. Sam’s lips hinted at something like a smirk. Dean couldn’t have been happier. 

“In the beginning of the leviathan occupation,” he started again, wanting more of this, however fleeting and however willfully ignorant of the nightmare they were about to face once they walked out this suite. “The prevailing idea amongst the resistance was that killing their leader, a leviathan named Dick Roman, would stop them. Like, all of them. Wipe ‘em out,” Dean waved. “Five years in, a team of,” Dean put his hand out, “angels again, of course, got their opportunity. Nearly all of them died but Cas, Cas dealt the killing blow to the Leviathan and,” Dean dragged the word out, then further with tempered amusement when he noticed Sam leaning in closer, rapt, as he did, “nothing.” Sam deflated, but nodded along, probably understanding their current world would be very different if anything had worked. “Cas got sucked into some kinda Purgatory vortex with Dick Roman. Topside, there was some scrambling. We thought we had the upper hand for awhile and still, when you end any leviathan leadership there’s disorganized chaos that offers us a window. But they always reorganize. They,” Dean paused, solemn, “carry on,” Dean finished, lost in dark memories. He frowned and swallowed sickly.

“How’d Cas get out?” Sam asked and it perked Dean up. 

“Well, Cas got to kill Dick Roman a second time so that must’ve been satisfying. From there he cut his way through that realm and found Luna’s Kingdoms.”

Startled, wide eyes met Dean’s.

“It’s true?”

Dean sighed and smiled as he nodded. “Every word. Castiel confirmed to us he’d encountered the kingdoms and packlands. They’d let him in. Helped him. But the legends have been around among weres of all species for centuries. I thought you’d understand I was a were when I started talking about it.”

Sam shook his head. “I… don’t remember much of my territory. There was an… attack,” Sam hedged with haunted eyes and Dean knew there’d been no other survivors. “When I was young.”

“How young?”

Sam pressed his lips together and shot Dean a furtive glance before shrugging. “Something like six.” 

“Six years old?” Dean blurted. Sam looked up at him, alarmed. “How…what…” Dean sputtered, then stopped because Sam looked two seconds away from another panic attack. “No, nothing. It’s okay. I’m sorry.” Dean pressed his hands against his mouth, doing his best to hide incredulous fury. Six was so young. How had he survived this world with no one looking after him?

Dean coughed, clearing his throat and scratched his five o’clock shadow coming in.

“So, I was talking about Castiel, right?” The kid nodded tentatively, eyes still cautious but getting over it. “Right. So, uh. How he got back. Cas found a portal to reach Earth again and now he’s not like any other angel we’ve ever encountered. In Purgatory, he came to appreciate and embrace the more neutral and good supernatural beings that Luna, not God and not Eve, created. He’s been working with us - the Marrow Pack - ever since,” he finished, wishing he had more to the story. Or more stories. Wishing he could keep watching Sam’s reactions, monitoring the kid’s slow improvement getting more comfortable with him, the sound of his voice, the sheer simplicity of experiencing a normal conversation between equals.

Instead, his comms patched through with Fahrenheit and pure dread slipped back into him, carving out that pit in his stomach, a vise squeezing his heart and sucking the air out of his lungs. Cas had cleared all Cheyenne Club’s entrance checks and gotten on to the main floor. Soon he’d be heading into position, meeting with Tennyson, finding Jack. 

It was time.

When Dean was done listening and confirmed with “roger, wilco,” over his own new directives he looked up to realize Sam had heard everything. Their close proximity sitting on the bed and the kid’s two sets of ears made it inevitable. Other decent indicators included the tangy scent of fear wafting off him and his ashen face with a pale green undertone.

Depleted too, Dean just met Sam’s gaze with apology. There was nothing for it but to move ahead.

Sam took a huge breath and let it out slowly, thin lips forming a severe line as he inhaled again. Some color came back into him and he stood up first. 

Dean’s astonishment at seeing Sam take the initiative to stand was furthered by the fact that his movements meant Dean had to look up… and up…

Dean bit his tongue commenting on it, knowing any vocal observations of Sam’s physique were probably either unwanted or doomed to get horrifically misinterpreted. Didn’t stop him from scrambling up and assessing the difference between their heights though. By Luna, if Sam didn’t deliberately posture himself to appear smaller he was probably taller than Dean. 

“I’m…” Sam gulped, then handed the velvet suit jacket back out to Dean. “I’m ready.”

Dean’s jaw clenched trying not to cringe as he took the jacket, the last item Sam had besides the sheets that’d been keeping his modesty. He stood before Dean now back to nothing more than what he’d been prepped to wear earlier, the golden sheer slip of a tunic that covered everything but really nothing. Dean's stomach churned and a heavy wave of nausea came over him again. He swallowed back bile observing Sam was too thin, beaten, hurting in nearly every way imaginable including some he hadn’t even imagined before like chronic pain due to that paralysis curse. What the fuck else had they done to-

Dean stopped himself and breathed. He wanted- no, needed - Sam free, clean, warm, fed, well-rested, healthy and yet he was about to drag the kid into the center of a den of evil beasts to play bait on the club’s most dangerous and powerful leviathan. Looking like this.

“What the fuck am I thinking,” Dean whispered. He roughly shouldered his way back into his crumpled velvet jacket and couldn’t help but shudder and back up against the door shaking, Sam’s scent slamming into him. Dean would’ve found it equally as comforting as Sam had earlier - it was the nature of weres to find comfort in each other’s scents after all - but Sam’s terror and despair had been so concentrated over the course of their time together that those scents had been imbued into the jacket, far overpowering the kid’s natural scent. Dean pressed a hand against the wall and tried to control ragged breath. 

“Holy shit, we can’t…we can’t do this,” Dean trembled out. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sam’s pain and terror was getting to him now, surrounding him. He hadn’t been expecting this.

Things were taking a serious turn for the worse if Dean folded here. “C’mon, c’mon, get it together,” Dean muttered to himself, eyes closed, doing his best to concentrate and fight through it.

“Dean?” Sam prompted, so hesitant it was barely a whisper. Dean turned, opened his eyes to look at Sam, hands fisted in restraint against his chest. He knew how to solve this but he still had reservations. He’d been noting the conflict in Sam’s eyes ever since the start of all this: Sam instinctively feared touch even though he softened into it once the touch landed. And when Dean would pull away Sam was paradoxically both relieved and left wanting.

Dean had made the right call refraining from touch so Sam wouldn’t be distracted but now Dean was crumbling under the weight of Sam’s penetrating scent of misery and distress. They just weren’t going to make it through without something.

Dean licked his lips, nervous, and asked as delicately as possible. 

“Can I,” Dean paused, then rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was doing this - it was so cheesy, asking permission to touch, like that was even a thing among werecreatures. But he’d never met a were so fucked up about touch as Sam. Verbal communication was paramount if Sam grew up thinking the innate physical bonding of weres was something to fight - something to hate experiencing. “Can I hug you?”

Sam’s eyes burned with stress. Dean winced, knowing the absence of ‘no’ still wasn’t a ‘yes’ but unclenched a fist and reached out anyway.

“I’m sorry. I just want you to scent me. Nothing else. I promise, Sam, just…” he gently touched the pads of his fingers on Sam’s wrist. And just like that, as though Sam’s wrist had a mind of its own it moved out further into Dean’s hand. Sam started to tremble. “That’s it, that’s it, Sammy, it’s okay,” Dean whispered, clasping Sam’s cold limp hand then wrist, the elbow, pulling him in as slowly as possible. He was shaking like a leaf by the time Dean wrapped his arms around him and guided Sam’s head into the crook of his neck.

Nothing happened for a second, Sam’s body still way too tense, when Dean realized the kid was holding his breath.

“Sammy, breathe,” he whispered, rubbing his back, “It’s okay. I just need you to scent me.”

  


Finally Sam inhaled. He whimpered on his exhale, instantly melting against Dean, inhibitions lost and just clutching back like his life depended on it. Dean heaved a sigh of relief, gripping Sam tighter under the weight Sam was trusting him with now and closed his eyes. “Perfect,” he praised, feeling the energy and their scents circulating, doing what they do for weres that ally and bond together. It was settling them both down, focusing them; they were giving and offering comfort and trust and conviction in equal measure between them.

“It’s okay, we’re gonna make it through this. I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?” Dean said, willing every once of confidence and affection he held into his words and touch and hoping his own scent carried it all through. 

Sam nodded and stepped into Dean further, taking what Dean had to offer with more strength and esteem and giving it back too.

They finally pulled apart, both of them invigorated. Sam gave a ghost of a smile and Dean took it for treasure.

“Hold my hand, okay?”

Sam shook his head. “That’s not how it’s done usually. You’ll stand out.”

“What’s the alternative?”

Sam swallowed nervously and went over to the armoire. He opened the doors and pulled out a black leather collar. Dean wiped a hand down his face. 

“Okay. Come back here, please,” Dean waved him over. Sam stepped back holding the collar out to Dean which he took. He tossed it to the floor.

“C’mon, hold my hand, kiddo,” he repeated, extending his hand out. Sam took it. Dean hated he didn’t have time to acknowledge the wan smile of gratitude Sam had on his face staring at the collar on the floor. “Listen to me. Do as I say. Stay as close to me as possible. Remember, nothing bad’s gonna happen to you. I’ll make sure of it. Okay?”

Sam’s eyes glistened as he concentrated on Dean’s words. “Okay,” he whispered, nodding, squeezing Dean’s hand harder than he ever would’ve dared before. 

“Okay. Okay we’re ready. C’mon sweetie, time’s a-wastin’,” he whispered as he opened the door. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam make a face and smirked as he pulled them out into the corridor.

_Oh yeah _, he thought. _They were gonna make it _. 

  


Dean had to think fast as they walked down the hallway. Sam was huddled close behind him, their hands tightly clasped. 

“Dean. You know I have to pretend too,” Sam murmured.

“What? Sure, Sam,” Dean whispered back, distracted. 

“Mr. Fogarty!” Sheldon announced, appearing at the end of the hall, arms raised in welcome, one still holding his trusty clipboard. “I hope you had a splendid time!” He winked. 

His expression diminished at Dean's thinly disguised expression of loathing.

Dean felt a strain on their hands. Sam was pulling away. He glanced back and realized what Sam had meant about having to pretend too. He was hunched in, head bowed and ears back, trembling, his body language telegraphing their clasped hands was a forced and threatening thing. For Dean, it was a new wave of nausea to see Sam feigning the symptoms of trauma and suffering Sheldon would be expecting in the aftermath of their time together. To sell it, Sam’s grip on Dean had gone weaker. 

Dean steeled himself, compensated for it with a tug to bring Sam in closer and addressed Sheldon.

“He was so admirable I decided to keep him for longer,” he replied in a way that made his own skin crawl. To drive things home he pushed his hand up the nape of Sam’s neck and into his hair. Sam didn’t have to fake the shiver of discomfort that came from it.

“Indeed, indeed,” Sheldon minced, “Would you like to sit down and have a drink?”

“A bar on the main floor would be just the thing,” Dean suggested approvingly.

Sheldon broke into a wide grin and nodded. “Right this way, sir.”

The main floor was the ground level of the Cheyenne Club. It was an immense dance space the same size as the display floor below it. It was the most public section of the Cheyenne Club as it was the first section through which patrons entered after the foyer and weapons checks and as such it featured the most spectacles. Dizzying strobe lights, and gimmicks like glittery acrobats, dancers in hanging cages, fire breathers on raised platforms that dotted the floor and front stage with the DJ’s station, even sophomoric foam parties were provided to all manner of monster revelers in the throes of thumping house music. There were wide balconies that suited large parties wishing to view the action from above and reserving tables for bottle service under blacklight. Altogether the atmosphere held endless indulgent, hedonistic energy but nothing too divorced from what the best night clubs had been while humanity had hosted them. 

More discerning members of the Cheyenne Club would find their way to the double doors nearly hidden by the back bar with two suited monsters on either side, earpiece cords trailing down their necks. They would check membership badges’ QR codes using their phones or accept cash for customers to enter into a staggeringly different section of the compound. The soundproof doors would close and the distant vibration of bass would be the only hint of the floor behind replaced by elegant, warmly lit Victorian chairs and couches, soft tan leather booths, and immaculately dressed croupiers running their tables. Richly carpeted hallways extended further to other rooms that featured different gambling table limits. These spaces were for more intimate socializing and drinking. It was also where someone could catch the attention of staffers like Sheldon and express an interest in enjoying a pleasure slave for the evening, an auction, a fighting ring…

It was this area of the main floor that Sheldon would be leading them.

They passed through the narrow, dark, wood-paneled hallways of the lower floor. Other doors to other executive suites probably identical to the one Sam and Dean had been in punctuated the wall on the left while small sconces marked the wall to the right which kept everything dimly lit and hidden.

“Was the handling equipment not to your liking, Mr. Fogerty?”

“Pardon?” Sam squeezed Dean’s hand and made an abortive gesture towards his neck. “Oh,” Dean cleared his throat.

“We can offer you a wider variety of collars and whatnot if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dean growled. Sheldon gave him a curious double-take as he pushed open one of two metal double doors at the end of their final hallway. “I… like keeping him close,” Dean explained further, dripping as much twisted innuendo into it as he could. They entered a utilitarian cement and metal stairwell area, everything lit by unflattering white fluorescent light. Sheldon seemed suspicious at first before smirking and nodding with approval as he started up the stairs. Dean shot a worried look to Sam. Sam’s lips curled with severity, a silent admonition not to break cover. 

Not without some pride, Dean realized Sam was keeping it together better than he was.

He gave a minuscule shrug to suggest he was still going to break cover like this and brushed an affectionate, apologetic hand along the side of Sam’s face. Sam softened, his eyes briefly fluttering closed to relish the feeling of it. They quickly resumed climbing though, their steps echoing in the hollow stairwell. Sam was silent as a mouse behind him. When they got out and onto the main floor with the lavish decor, dress code, and rooms labeled by table limits, Sheldon told them to wait a minute before moving out, peering into various rooms.

“Let me see, let me see…” Sheldon muttered to himself, bypassing one room and checking another. Dean was fine letting the leviathan choose as he subtly kept Sam hidden behind him, doing his best to keep any passers-by from leering.

“The Crystal Room,” Sam whispered and Dean turned, bemused. Sam shot a furtive glance at Sheldon then back at Dean with meaning.

“Hey, Sheldon. What’s this I hear about the Crystal Room-?”

Sheldon’s whipped around, his eyes lit up.

“Oh that’s wonderful you know about the Crystal Room!” He hustled back towards them. “Amethyst won’t be performing again for another,” Sheldon checked his watch, “half hour but that’s no matter. Right this way!”

Dean raised an eyebrow and gave a comical thumbs up before following the creature. Sheldon didn’t catch it but Sam had twitched a smile. Dean internally celebrated.

"So can I ask, who mentioned the Crystal Room to you? Only the most elite of our members knows it exists. You must have done something quite impressive for one of them to have gotten its name."

Dean glanced at Sam and the kid’s eyes were intent, the cut of his jaw determined, but he wasn't giving him anything.

"It was… Tennyson,” Dean coughed, looked to Sammy and saw the young man give the tiniest nod of encouragement. “I, uh... gave him a discount on a shipment of food for the slaves," Dean improvised. Glancing at Sam again he knew he'd taken a sharp wrong turn.

Sheldon snorted, turning back for a second to Dean before leading them through a massive, frenzied industrial kitchen.

"Very funny,” Sheldon spoke loudly so he could be heard over the kitchen’s din. “All right, keep your secrets," he chuckled. Sam’s eyes darted to Dean, relieved but stressed and Dean knew exactly how that felt. Now he was dreading his own curiosity though. What was the food situation here if it didn't accept standard shipments for so many slaves? He was pretty sure that was standard practice at all the other clubs they'd taken down.

It occurred to Dean that Sam had said Sebastian voluntarily elected to oversee the management of the slaves, a job usually reserved for lower status creatures. That is unless there's genuine delight to be had in torturing. Dean unconsciously squeezed Sam's hand when he concluded Sebastian must have frequently starved them.

Sheldon ushered them through a small wooden door in the back. It stood out among the chrome and white porcelain of the kitchen but an easy door to write off as an entrance to some kind of wine storage area.

They went a few short steps down a narrow hallway and reached thick black velvet curtains. Sheldon fumbled to find the opening.

“I present to you…” Sheldon announced, pulling the curtains back, “the Crystal Room!”

Dean didn’t have to hide his distaste for the leviathans’ theatrics. He walked inside, dragging Sam along. “Thank you, Sheldon,” he gritted out.

“My pleasure.” Sheldon bowed and left them blessedly alone standing just inside.


	3. Bait in the Crystal Room

Dean looked around, taking in as much as he could. It was much darker in here, the space full of shadows created by almost nothing but candlelight. Drapes of deep maroon, gold, and mauve hung from the low ceiling, creating tents over tables and enclaves along the walls where ottomans had been placed, decorated with silk pillows. The small stage at the far end of the room was an oval cement platform with tables pressed right up against its edge. Ornately carved chairs with silky seat pillows were scattered around the open floor to match. Dean registered the entrance behind them was the only exit and the maximum capacity of the room was maybe a hundred if it crammed. At the moment there was only about half of that number present.

“Eldritch. To your right,” Sam whispered into his ear, making Dean flinch but he followed Sam’s line of sight. It was a lean man sitting alone at one of the tables near the stage. He wore a dark v-neck sweater, white collar and silver tie. He was leaning back, legs crossed comfortably as he sipped amber from a snifter, eyes fixed unseeing at the empty stage lost in thought.

“Who is he?”

Sam swallowed nervously, still eyeing him. “Friend, of Sebastian’s.” His voice broke at the end. Dean released Sam’s hand to rub his back. He tapped on his comms device.

“Fahrenheit, we’re in the Crystal Room, do you copy? Target Two location will be main floor, Crystal Room, read?” Dean waited, then nodded when he heard Charlie confirm. He turned to face Sam. “Okay.” In the darkness, Dean bent to kiss the top of Sam’s hand before running his other palm over it. He was mollified to feel some warmth. “C’mon Sammy,” he whispered. Sam nodded and met the strength of Dean’s hand in his.

Dean made his way past a few occupied tables of well-dressed monsters enjoying the elite debauchery and waiting patiently for ‘Amethyst’ to come on stage and perform. As they passed, Dean noticed some attendees had their own pleasure slaves for the evening seated or kneeling under the tables. They were all dressed differently, probably in line with whatever their display floor booth gimmick had been. Most of them were cowering, hidden from view; the ones who weren’t had nondescript expressions. Dean knew it was not uncommon to drug slaves but this was disturbing. Dean’s heart raced. He’d been to many compounds like these but never undercover to a room like this, an atmosphere fostering such a blatant fellowship of unbridled casual slavery and sadism. It was affecting him deeply, made him feel tainted and dirty that he could even be taken as one of them.

Just as Dean chose a table adjacent to Eldritch closer to center stage, he turned to whisper to Sam. Before he could, the kid practically ripped out of his grip and ducked under the table.

“Sam-!” Dean clipped off his own hurried whisper, checking for Eldritch. Eldritch was totally oblivious though, standing up from his table and making his way over to the bar carrying his empty snifter. All clear, Dean was still careful about sitting down and casually bending over past the table top. Just in time to see Sam lock a manacle around his ankle, his body curved and twisted into what must’ve been an uncomfortable - but clearly sickeningly familiar for Sam - position in the small space.

“Sam,” Dean barked as quietly as possible. He hadn’t been thinking that far ahead when he’d seen the other slaves under the tables, hadn’t even known their ankles were locked, but he knew he didn’t want Sam there and he sure as shit didn’t want the manacle there. His eyes trailed the thing’s chain. It was attached to the table column bolted to the floor. How the hell was Dean going to get him out of that?

Sam looked up, his cat’s eyes wide and reflective in the dark.

“It’s the only way,” Sam breathed shakily, ears twitching back and forth. The tone pulled Dean out of his own concerns to register the kid’s bravery. He reached out and felt Sam trembling. A palm to his neck and Dean felt his pulse racing. Adrenaline was rushing through them both. He took an audible breath, a tacit suggestion Sam do the same. He bottled up all his shit and whispered “okay.”

Dean grabbed a seat cushion on the empty chair next to his and dropped it to Sam to use before rising up to sit normally. All they really had to do now was wait anyway. With luck this Eldritch creature would come back to his table, notice Dean had rented Sam, and ping the appropriate channels to alert Sebastian without a single word spoken between them.

A floor boss in a cheap suit and built like a tank walked by and didn't even bother to be subtle checking Sam's chains. Sam just put his foot out perfunctorily to let him see they were locked before he moved on. Dean watched with gritted teeth but said nothing. His stomach roiled even further though as strong fumes of crushed bones and cognac filled the air and Dean tilted his head to the source, making direct eye contact with Eldritch sloshing his new drink as he came shuttling towards them.

Sam muttered something in fear that Dean couldn’t make out before he felt Sam's hand touch his knee. Dean didn't know if his next moves were his protective instincts kicking in or Sam’s kitten-light touches requesting them but as loathe as he was to participate in any of this Dean opened his legs, got a grip under Sam’s arms and pulled. Sam slid back, seat pillow and all until he was between Dean’s knees, head bowed, quavering, his back pressing against Dean's chair heavily. He steadied more when Dean kept his hands on him, one heavy arm across Sam’s chest and the other hand stroking his ears.

"Oh," Eldritch cooed with interest, bulbous eyes scouring the space under the table. They lit upon Dean, wide and hungry. “The kitten’s out to play, hm?”

Dean smirked and shrugged. “What an innocent way to put it,” Dean marveled. “If only what we’ve been up to could be considered innocent,” he laughed darkly and Eldritch quickly joined in.

“Ah,” Eldritch sighed, “That’s just,” he bit his bottom lip like he was looking for the right word, “exquisite” he finished, dragging it out. He tilted his head to get another peek. Sam shifted uncomfortably under Eldritch's scrutiny. Dean betrayed nothing.

"Does Sebastian know?" Eldritch asked casually but there was an edge to it.

Sam was shaking and Dean knew Sam's reaction was a conflict of both excitement and fear. On the one hand this was their mission: to pull Sebastian out into the open. On the other, Sam was justifiably petrified of him.

Sam rearranged himself, folding in and as close to Dean as possible, pressed his forehead against Dean’s thigh. Dean stopped stroking Sam's hair and instead cupped the back of his head, doing his best to impart calm strength with his touch. They'd get out of this soon. They just needed Sebastian to get here. Eldritch didn't even know Dean knew about Sebastian though. In fact Dean's cover was that he didn’t even know Eldritch’s name.

“Who’s Sebastian?”

Eldritch scoffed.

“Who're _you _," Dean reacted, looking him up and down feigning indignity.

“Oh my, my,” Eldritch laughed, then offered some annoying tsks.

Dean arched his eyebrow at Eldritch. Strived to come off as haughty as this creature was snide. Eldritch rolled his eyes.

"This one's Sebastian's," he explained, pointing at Sam. "How long have you had him?"

"Not interested in sharing," Dean retorted, deliberately misunderstanding.

Eldritch guffawed, took a sip of his drink, and snapped his fingers. Dean’s expression pinched at the gesture when the same tank-sized floor boss from before came into view approaching them.

“Hey, wait. What’s going on?” Dean directed at Eldritch, acting concerned. As the floor boss nearly reached them, Dean leaned forward and whispered to Eldritch, selling desperation for all it was worth. “Look if there’s anything I’ve done, I need to know.”

“Oh,” Eldritch rolled his eyes. “You’ll know soon enough.”

"But this was all fair and square. I dealt with Sheldon," Dean pointed out

"Ha!" Eldritch pitched. "Sheldon's new and trying to make a point. Or maybe he doesn’t even know. In any event he's an idiot for making any kind of transaction for Sebastian's kitty, isn't he?" Eldritch bent under the table looking for Sam to agree.

"He’s mine,” Dean rumbled low and threatening. Unfazed, Eldritch opened his mouth to respond when the floor boss reached them. Dean's hands were still below the table holding Sam against him with honestly no idea whose benefit it was serving the most.

“Ah, Reginald. Good to see you.” Reginald the floor boss nodded and stood at ease before their two tables. “The kitten-?” Eldritch waved in Sam’s general direction below the table. Dean grasped Sam tighter.

Reginald seemed puzzled at first before leaning back to sight the werecat. “Does Sebastian know-?" Eldritch followed up innocently, blinking up at the formidable boss. He sipped at his cognac, a grin behind the glass.

Reginald crouched and took a step forward. Dean held his breath, no longer feigning worry. He felt Sam’s warmth against him, told himself the boss was just taking a look so he could go, inform Sebastian and do no more. It would be all right.

Sam's grip on Dean tightened just before it was torn away with a piercing howl from the werecat. Reginald had grabbed the chain on his ankle and yanked so hard Sam practically flew out from under Dean.

“What the fuck,” Dean shouted, using his own speed and agility to catch Sam’s wrist but Sam was wild with fear. He broke out of Dean’s hold and let himself get pulled out onto the floor beside the table. He stood his ground on all fours, looking up, hissing and spitting at his attacker. Dean watched his nails extend into claws and scrape the floor as he kept his head low, tail straight up in the air, ears down and tense.

Dean had never seen defensive posturing like that in a were. It was fascinating, so uniquely feline, and Dean would have spent more time marveling over it if his own were instincts hadn’t kicked in, his growing familiarity and connection to Sam in so much distress was a shot of adrenaline he would gladly use. After just a second of objective assessment Dean knew that as powerful as Sam was even in mid-shift and under the chronic panic of it no less, Sam wasn’t a match for the floor boss. He couldn’t even lunge at the monster because his ankle was still chained.

Quickly Reginald reached inside the folds of his suit and pulled out a small billy club. In one swift move, he flicked it back to extend it further then raised the asp over Sam. Sam made sounds low in the back of his throat when Dean wrapped his arms around the werecat’s waist and pulled him out of range. Sam slid back closer to the table, his chain rattling, and Reginald’s asp swung through empty air. With Sam out of danger, Dean launched himself at the creature with a relentless series of hits, punching him in the eye, boxing his ears and sweeping his legs out from under him with easy efficiency.

The whole room gasped before hushed excited laughs and whispers spread through the space.

"Wow," Eldritch drawled amidst them, eyes leveled upon Dean. Dean stood over the floor boss, catching his breath.

"Get Sheldon out here. The cat is mine," Dean boomed, furious and yet under laborious restraint to keep his eyes from illuminating. He was barely containing it. Most weres but especially werewolves were inherently protective and evoking that trait in such a pure way as this would have naturally caused Dean’s eyes to light up like a firework. Reginald glared back at him from the floor but there was no indication Dean was giving himself away with his eyes. He thanked his lucky stars he’d been doing this for so long.

Onlookers called for more fighting. A few more whistled. Some shouted requests to wrap things up before Amethyst came on. Nobody had so much as left their seats. They'd all just sat back to relax and found themselves happily watching and commenting on the proceedings like it was its own form of entertainment. Before Reginald could get up and satisfy the patrons’ appeals for more brawling, Sheldon's frantic voice emerged from the background chatter.

“What is this? What is the meaning of this?!” Sheldon’s voice pierced through, the leviathan coming through looking like he was about to hit Reginald with his beloved clipboard. The floor boss got to his feet before that could happen though and Sheldon opted instead to scold him. “This most esteemed guest of ours has paid for the pleasure of the cat tonight, Reginald. Get back to your station this instant!”

Eldritch and Reginald exchanged meaningful looks. Dean suppressed a pleased smile knowing the floor boss wouldn't be getting back to his station so much as running to get Sebastian. Without another word, Reginald turned on his heel and disappeared. Eldritch gazed at Sheldon with caustic amusement, an eyebrow raised as he sipped his drink and observed.

Dean fluidly took his seat and Sam immediately brushed up against his leg before leaning on it, slowly adding more weight until he was comfortable letting his head rest on Dean’s knee in the darkness.

"I am so very sorry about that, sir. Let me comp your drink, what would you have?"

"A Dark ‘n Stormy would be great, Sheldon, thank you."

"Of course. I'll square it all with the server." Sheldon shot a vindictive look at Eldritch before he took off. Eldritch rolled his eyes and shook his head at the new staffer, giving Dean the distinct impression that even if the Cheyenne Club wasn’t coming to an end tonight, Sheldon would’ve died this evening anyway.

"Well," Eldritch turned, focusing on Dean. Dean mimicked him in fake interest. "Now that's settled, I'm Eldritch." The creature held out a slim hand with long fingers. Dean eyed him, tense, then pretended to come around with a hammy hand shake. "Fogarty, Dean." Dean smiled and tried to make sure it didn't come off too predatory. Dean knew Eldritch thought he was buying time until Sebastian could arrive and it was to Dean's advantage to let him think such a thing. So long as the status quo remained, the creep seemed ready to do all the talking which meant more intel and less speaking from Dean; a reserved yet engaged bearing was always the best most convenient way to keep cover.

The proverbial record skipped when Dean heard what Eldritch said next though.

"Kitten," he trilled, leaning back and looking under Dean's table. Out of Eldritch's sight, Sam squeezed Dean's ankle. "Why don't you do what you do best, eh?" Eldritch chuckled lecherously.

Dean's expression darkened and for a split second it seemed as though Eldritch was really seeing Dean as the predator he was.

But then Sam's fingers tentatively brushed his fly and Dean jerked, startled and found himself clutching at Sam's hands, binding them way too tight. Sam’s muffled whimpers confirmed as much and Dean loosened his grip, closed his eyes and brought himself under control to keep his eyes dull. He wanted to apologize and let go of Sam, pull him up from under the table and tell Sam that he would never have to do anything like that again for the rest of his life starting right fucking now. But he couldn’t.

Eldritch’s shrewd eyes were narrowed, watchful, and Dean regained his composure.

Dean squeezed Sam’s hands as affectionately as he dared before he violently cast them away from him. 

"Do not touch me unless I order it myself, slave," Dean spat. Sam pretended to shiver in fright and nodded his bowed head. At least Dean hoped he was pretending. "And Eldritch," Dean swung over to the creature, "I will use the cat to my own ends and in my own time. Thank you," Dean snarled.

Eldritch put his hands up. "If you say so," he lilted. "My apologies.” The creature sighed with disappointment and stood up. “I'll just go get another drink as you... use him to your own ends and in your own time."

Dean sneered as the creature left but his mind was on Sam. Sam was still cowering from when Dean had thrown him off. Dean leaned back in his chair to find the young werecat huddled near his legs. His eyes darted to meet Dean’s and they shared a tentative look of understanding. 

Just then the already-low house lights dimmed and the stage lights shafted on. The room’s background noise rose and fell in excitement, some monsters cat-calling for Amethyst, some drumming on their tables while others attempted to shush everyone as though that were not just as annoying.

Dean took the crowd’s rambunctious enthusiasm as an opportunity to reach with his legs under the table and wrap them around Sam. Sam went with it and let Dean slide him backwards into an embrace. Sam settled with his own hands over Dean's arms surrounding him.

"I’m sorry," Dean whispered into Sam's hair. Sam's ears fluttered. Without hesitation he leaned his cheek against the crook of Dean's elbow and snugged in against him. It was forgiveness Dean wasn’t sure he deserved but for which he took with palpable relief.

A rawhead shuffled on stage, grotesque and dressed like P.T. Barnum. "Ladies and gentlemen," he sang out, apparently the master of ceremonies, "Lady Amethyst!"


	4. A Twist of Amethyst

Dean couldn't have cared less when the djinn, skin a midnight blue with bright etchings, appeared on stage. He could only really hear the jangling of her outfit as she belly danced because he was so focused on Sam. He hugged him with his legs again. "You're doing so good. Just hang in there," he barely whispered. Sam nodded and tucked himself against Dean further by pulling his knees up. Dean tapped his comms device. Ducked under the table with his pleasure slave was as good a cover to contact Charlie as any. Especially when everyone’s eyes were up on stage and their table was cloaked in relative darkness.

"Fahrenheit, Green checking in. Target Two is en route to my position. Update on Wings? Over."

"Copy that. Wings is in position and on standby for a countdown Green will initiate, read?"

"Copy. Wilco. Has he identified Jack?"

"Wings has identified Jack, yes. An alliance has not been established yet."

Dean looked down and rubbed Sam's shoulders as he asked, "Sam, is there anything Cas could say to make Jack trust him?"

Sam twisted to look at Dean, ears folded and brows furrowed in the dark; Dean's night vision was getting better, the suppressant almost totally worn off.

"Let him touch him to read his intentions."

"He can do that?" Dean asked, taken aback.

"Jack doesn’t have a lot of grace but enough to do that," Sam explained softly.

Dean relayed the information. As he listened to further instructions from Charlie, he casually looked around for Eldritch and discovered the man standing at the bar rapturously watching Amethyst's performance. Dean glanced back at the djinn, now flashing the audience at various dance combinations that'd brush the scarves and silks she wore off her body. Every time she bared skin the crowd clapped, whistled and jeered.

  


Dean internally shuddered at the idea of these evil sons of bitches forcing Sam into any kind of performance much less one like this. He adjusted his grip on the werecat, wanting to keep reminding them both they were still connected, still holding each other together. Charlie finished her report over comms. Dean whispered his codes for ending contact before tapping his comms device off.

He hunched over Sam. "Okay sweetie," Dean said, brushing his lips against Sam's hair. He felt Sam tense at the term and squeezed him so he wouldn't object. They didn't have time for it and Dean was certain Sam deserved the endearment. He stroked Sam's head and ears in earnest, sometimes sinking lower down to his back. In the dark Dean winced feeling Sam's knobbly spine, felt how his ribs were too easy to count. Dean kept easing him though, speaking in a low smooth undertone that had Sam listening intently. "We're on standby waiting for Sebastian. When he arrives, I call it in to Fahrenheit. Then everything's a go. Cas takes Tennyson and...” Dean trailed off, freezing his touches. 

Sam blinked his eyes open and looked up into Dean’s immediately. They reflected the purple stage lights in the darkness but more than that they were wide with astonishment.

Sam was purring. It had quieted when Dean had gone still but Sam was _purring_.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, eyes glimmering with worry now. “I didn’t know…”

Dean shook his head. “No, no…”

“I didn’t know I could purr half-shifted like this,” Sam whispered vehemently. “I’m sorry,” he added and Dean nearly covered his mouth so he’d stop talking. Sam didn’t know he could purr? He’d been like this for years and he’d never...

Dean wanted to tell him not to apologize but he knew that particular message might fall on deaf ears judging by how he was taking Dean’s reaction. “It’s okay. It’s better than okay, Sam. I like hearing it,” Dean praised instead. He resumed his ministrations. After a nervous pause, Sam’s purrs grew louder as he sank back into Dean’s tender affection. He rubbed his eyes clear and leaned so Dean could pet along the side of his neck.

"You let me handle Sebastian, okay?"

Sam ducked his head like he was thinking about objecting when he went still as a statue, his purrs coming to an abrupt stop. A voice like gravel, heavy and scratchy and unmistakably menacing spoke out near them.

"I trust you've been having a good time. Dean Fogarty, is it?"

Sam’s chain clanged in his haste to stay as far away from Sebastian as he could but remained clutching Dean's ankle. Dean straightened to face the leviathan coolly, though inwardly he cursed himself he'd gotten so distracted as to have missed the leviathan’s approach. He had no idea how to initiate the countdown over comms now.

"I am and I _have _been having a good time, yes," Dean confirmed, not missing a beat, plastering a smile to his face. He nodded at Amethyst up on stage, pointed down in the center of the table in a way that clearly indicated he was referring to Sam below it. Sebastian nodded in acknowledgment, only the slightest hint of bristling when Dean gestured about Sam. He did nothing then, pointedly neglecting to introduce himself. Dean slanted his head to see Eldritch hovering behind Sebastian, hungry eyes lit up and licking his lips with anticipation.

“Hi, Eldritch,” Dean greeted the creature dully. “I assume this is your pal, Sebastian?” Dean bought time. How the hell was he going to call in to Fahrenheit?

A thought came to him. Sam could call it in. He knew the plan and he’d heard Dean check in by procedure multiple times now.

“I really felt you two should meet is all,” Eldritch chirped his defense while Dean formulated his new plan: get the comms device to Sam and hopefully the kid will understand by that gesture alone it’s up to him to initiate the countdown to a synchronized take-down of Cheyenne Club’s leaders.

Easy. 

“We do have the same tastes, after all,” Dean agreed, pouring as much salacious meaning into his delivery as possible, shifting in his seat as though the mere thought were arousing. In reality he was moving to better pull a small compact case from his suit pants pocket. Regardless of any planned or spontaneous course of action, Dean could tell when it was time to arm himself.

“Indeed,” Sebastian gritted out, glancing between Amethyst and Dean, debating with himself whether to launch into violence now or after. Dean quietly thanked Luna for the length of this djinn’s performance. He needed another distraction though and found it in Eldritch again, the creature holding what looked like his Dark and Stormy. He leaned back, pressing a casual hand to his ear, dislodging his comms device as he nodded and asked, “That mine?”

"Your order," Eldritch snickered, coming forward again to place it on his table. Dean gave him a withering look as Eldritch fell right back behind Sebastian like the sniveling crony he was.

"I'm so pleased you're having a splendid experience but I'm afraid to tell you there's been a grave mistake,” Sebastian explained, getting increasingly annoyed by Dean slurping his cocktail and the overbearing sounds of Amethyst’s performance. Combined with the small but vocal crowd, Sebastian’s temper was quickly reaching the end of its rope. “This werecat was not up for rent this evening and as a result he must be recalled immediately."

Dean slammed his cocktail down with the hand that held his comms device, pulled his chair out and dragged Sam back between his knees again, this time completely visible and facing Sebastian. Sam cowered in his arms and Dean swore he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to him but for now he just needed a way to jam the stupid comms into Sam’s ear so he’d understand what he needed to do.

“How many times do I have to say it?” Dean bit out, eyes as fierce as he could make them without blowing his cover. “The kitten is mine for tonight,” Dean enunciated slowly, teeth bared as he handled Sam roughly until he got his hand around the side of the kid’s head and slid the comms into Sam’s ear. Sam jerked and let out a terrified, pained yip before he tamped it down, hopefully realizing it was just Dean’s comms device.

At first Dean thought the jig was up but a quick assessment told him nothing of the sort had happened. Sam’s scrambling and his fearful reaction to the device in his ear had only resulted in the creatures’ eyes dilating, hungry looks on their faces. Dean forced himself from thinking about the implications, he needed to focus. He looked to the stage for another distraction. Amethyst had stripped completely nude by now. A circle of grotesque hobgoblins had shuffled in on spindly limbs and taken a nearby table, beady excitable eyes watching the exchange between him and Sebastian. Dean pushed himself and Sam both back closer to the table so it could serve as a shield for Sam again.

“The kitten is not yours for the night,” Sebastian disputed, visibly flexing his hands into fists as a warning. At the creature’s first word of disagreement, Dean’s hearing picked up Sam's hurried whispers beneath the table.

Pride for Sam bloomed through him to hear the kid speaking to Charlie: "Fahrenheit, th-this is Green, Target T-two is in position. Initiate countdown."

Dean turned to look up at Sebastian. Casually, he pulled his garrote out of the compact case; in the dark it didn't look like anything and the leviathan barely noticed. Countdown was initiated and now all Sam had to do was let him know exactly when to make his move in sync with Cas. Somehow.

"I guess we just have to agree to disagree," Dean quipped, readying himself for an assault on Sam’s signal when suddenly the audience began applauding. Everyone looked to the stage. Amethyst's performance was over.

Dean clenched his jaw and bounced his leg, waiting for Sam to let him know. Time was wasting and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stall. At least Sebastian and Eldritch seemed somewhat at ease, still amenable, and they even clapped towards the end of the applause as she exited the stage.

Sebastian turned to look at Dean when the racket had died down.

“So Mr. Fogarty, I would appreciate it if you’d relinquish the cat now. It seems you’ve had ample enough time to satisfy your tastes.”

Dean squinted, trying to figure out the best way to drag this out when he felt Sam’s hand gently wrap around his ankle and squeezed before letting go.

"You see, the thing is-" and Dean launched himself at the leviathan, catching the creature by surprise and getting two quick right punches in, backing them away from the table. He would've gotten more when he heard Sam let out a yowl and several vicious hisses. He turned and sighted Eldritch bending under the table trying to drag him out. Dean moved to help when Sebastian took the opening and gut punched Dean from behind. Dean twisted, slammed his fist into the same side of Sebastian’s face he’d hit before but the leviathan was undeterred. Sebastian soared his fist dead center into Dean’s stomach and the werewolf folded, stumbling backwards.

Dean huffed, gathering himself as he reached his palms to the floor, anchored down and when the leviathan stepped closer, he whipped his legs up and windmilled, smacking his heels against the leviathan's head twice in rapid succession. When Dean's feet landed, he pivoted again to see Eldritch still crouched and striving to pull Sam from out under the table. Dean raced over and jumped on Eldritch’s shoulders. Dean never really caught what the creature's species was but he wasn't surprised it was also leviathan. It stood easily, carrying Dean's entire body weight on his shoulders but before he could throw Dean off, Dean made a quick lap around the creature's neck with the garrote, Eldritch took a single rattling gasp before his head slid to the ground. Dean landed deftly on his feet as the body crumpled under him.

It was as though Dean had flipped a switch. Creatures started screaming, running to get out. Dean supposed brawls were one thing, public decapitations were another.

Gunshots rang out and Dean felt the bullets hitting him in the back. Not silver, just regular bullets but they still smarted like hell. He turned, eyes glowing verdant green.

Sebastian's eyes widened with realization before twisting into pure hatred.

"Were," he spat right before he dropped the gun and rushed for the bar behind him, most likely for silver cutlery.

Dean didn’t have much time. He ran for the gun. Panicked feet had kicked it astray but Dean spotted it. He managed to jump over a charging goblin, dodge a vampire, and face up against what was probably a crocotta, considering its foul stench and unhinged jaw boasting quite a few needle-sharp teeth. The crocotta got in a couple punches before Dean let loose a flurry of his own that backed the creature up closer to the gun. He kicked out its knee and got him on the floor. Faster than the crocotta’s own abilities, Dean slipped his garrote around it’s neck and pulled in one fluid swing like a heavy thrum on a guitar. The creature’s head toppled and Dean wasted no more time, stepping over the body and racing to the gun that’d now been kicked under an ottoman. Just as Dean was about to reach it, a wooden board filled his vision. Dean’s preternatural instincts kicked in, successfully ducking the thing and sliding closer to the gun. He turned around, ready to fight whoever had been wielding the board only to see it’d been dropped to the floor, his attacker gone. Maybe a dark fae; they were known to be mercurial.

“Lucky, lucky, lucky,” Dean muttered to himself as he grabbed the gun and backed into the shadows, the ottoman giving him some cover from the room full of enemy combatants and the rest of it nothing but chaos. He wished he could just shift to fight but the garrote was the only way to subdue Sebastian. He needed the dexterity of his hands. He wiped his brow and opened the chamber. Nine rounds, three bullets missing that’d gone into Dean’s back.

Dean looked up and across the room he caught the silvery luminescence of Sam’s eyes faintly glowing under the table. He glanced and noticed all the other slaves he’d seen beneath the tables were still there, locked down and abandoned by the club’s vile patrons. Dean had to get Sam. Besides the base goal of freeing the kid, he wouldn't make it out of this room without backup and as Cas wasn't making an appearance Sam was his next best bet. He stood up and entered back into visibility of the main floor where some monsters were still lingering, disoriented and agitated. Dean was halfway to Sam when the kid screamed for him.

"Dean!"

A flash of brilliant white hot pain came over him, silver slicing into him within an inch of his spine.

Dean grunted at the knife’s impact and crashed to the ground. Hurt and pissed, the knife still in him, he twisted around on the floor and aimed.

"One, two," he counted the bullets as he shot Sebastian, hitting the leviathan’s gut but it barely flinched. The creature just kept fiddling with several glinting knives that stank of cold and sour silver. Sebastian singled one out as he continued to approach, flinging it up in the air and catching it with a grin, clearly enjoying this.

Dean lifted his focus higher. "Three, four," Dean counted further, watching as the bullets penetrated the creature’s lungs and heart.

“This is tedious,” Sebastian drawled but he’d begun to falter. Dean grimaced, knowing he needed to save at least one bullet for Sam’s cursed ankle brace.

He raised his sights right between Sebastian’s eyes. He took a deep breath. "Five," he exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

It was a bull’s eye. Sebastian stopped with a grunt and covered his head with his hands.

"Ow," he whined, voice disappointingly bland as Dean retreated. The silver poison from the knife still in his back was like liquid ice racing through his veins as he stumbled and crawled his way to Sam.

Monsters were still streaming out of the Crystal Room in confusion, some even came into the room thinking it’d possibly be safer somehow. The bartender's radio was lying on the counter abandoned, crackling urgent orders. Sebastian was healing quickly and would soon be ready to fight again in a matter of minutes. A loud explosion boomed distantly somewhere else in the building and Sebastian finally stopped focusing on Sam and Dean to acknowledge the implications of it. He looked down at them and snarled, “So you’re not alone.”

Dean had almost reached Sam on the floor. He turned around though, still lying on his side, whole back in agony and vision narrowing, and offered his most predatory grin.

“Know what kind of were I am?” Dean challenged, “I’m never alone.”

Sebastian’s face contorted with fury. “Mongrel!” He roared, flipping his knife to hold the sharp side and lobbing it at Dean.

“No!” Sam cried.

The knife traveled at damn near slow motion for Dean. It was headed straight for a lethal shot to his heart and Dean knew it’d be as good a way to die as any. Protecting the last known werecat on the continent for just these past couple hours had been a privilege.

He would’ve liked to have seen Sammy free.

Suddenly a deep purple hand shot out and plucked the soaring blade out of its trajectory through the air.

Dean collapsed all the way to the floor and watched Amethyst - still nude but the etchings on her skin almost bright neon now - step in between him and Sebastian. She twirled the blade in the air to hold it right so she could hurl it at the head of… the master of ceremonies rawhead who’d been running towards her from the stage. The force of it lodged deep in the thing's face hilt to forehead and it collapsed in spasms.

"You'll be paying for that, Amethyst," Sebastian threatened, pulling out another silver knife.

"Over my dead body, you sick fuck," she spat back, eyes flashing red before she pulled Dean's knife out of his back. Dean cried out but she ignored him, whipping it straight at the leviathan. Dean felt his heart sink as Sebastian caught the knife instead. Sebastian immediately threw it back towards her but in the same moment Amethyst squatted down dodging it, grabbed fistfuls of Dean’s suit and slid him across the floor to Sam with incredible strength and control. Dean stopped directly in front of his werecat, stunned, looking after her. For the first time tonight he was a little turned on.

Amethyst stood up straight with perfect posture and nodded at them with dignity. Dean offered a pale imitation of a salute, deeply impressed. She ran off, only stopping to simply touch the forehead of another monster, purple light emitting from her fingers and seeping into the creature's mind. The creature collapsed, clearly in the throes of either delight or horror depending on what kind of djinn she was. Dean didn't much care at this point.

Suddenly Sam grabbed him and Dean heard the clatter of another silver knife on the floor missing him completely as he was practically thrown to the side, Sam's body covering him.

"Damn it," Sebastian grunted. Dean twisted in Sam's arms.

"Here." Dean took the safety off. "Just point and shoot," he breathed, handing the gun over. Sam's hands were sweaty and shaking but he took it. Dean cupped the back of Sam’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. "You can do it," he whispered before he rolled out from under the table and bought Sam some time by launching himself at the leviathan again.

Dean was injured but he knew how to fight, how to dance around an inexperienced fighter like this sadistic asshole that only knew evil indulgence and slave driving. A couple times Dean almost had the creature with the garrote until Reginald or some other nondescript lackey would knock him away from pulling the string taut. The creatures all played dirty of course, hitting Dean’s back where the silver had punched through the flesh. Dean could dodge and feint away from most of them though and did his best with quick jabs that admittedly lacked a lot of power now, given the silver poisoning his immune system was still battling. He caught glimpses of Sam when he could, the kid contorting himself under the table, preparing the self-inflicted wound he'd be suffering in a minute.

Or a second. A gun shot rang out and a strangled wail erupted out from the depths of Sam's lungs. It stopped nearly everyone but most importantly Sebastian himself had a manic look, eyes blazing with extreme focus on the source of the blast.

Dean was transfixed as Sam dragged himself out from under the table with a bloody, mutilated ankle where the cursed brace had been. He let out a low yowl of anguish as he began shifting then and there, his other ankle still manacled to the table.


	5. Murder Floof

  


Dean’s mouth fell open in awe, his eyes shimmering with fascination at the sight of Sam becoming his feline form.

Dean had thought the ‘cat’ in werecat would be larger than house cats but not as large as wolves.

Sam was no house cat. Sam was no _wolf _.

His body kept expanding even from his human height of over six feet. It easily ripped the scratchy sheer fabric of his tunic. Fur emerged from his bruised and lacerated skin, a coat of sandy golden waves lining along his bones and muscles. A softer cream white emerged and lined his long underside. His ears lengthened from the size and shape of a large housecat’s to a much longer streamlined A-frame, their coloring matching the tan of his coat but trimmed with black fur and tipped with long black hair sticking up into the air. Sam’s tail thickened and lengthened, his arms and legs reformed into powerful limbs that tore open the manacle on his ankle with ease. He came down on his paws deftly, sleek and elegant power in every movement. 

Dean was a werewolf. He knew the whole majestic thing of it but Sam was on a whole other level.

Sam took a deep breath and roared. What was left alive on the entire floor came to a halt, covering their ears and seeking shelter from the sound. It was sorrow and pain, joy and freedom, but most of all Dean could sense the promise of vengeance. And unlike everyone else, perhaps because Dean knew he wasn’t included in that promise, Dean couldn't keep his eyes off the werecat. He was mesmerizing, wild and predatory yet smooth and calculating.

Sam finished his roar with closed eyes and steady breath, taking a moment to relish his body. He leapt onto the table calmly, roared again and suddenly used powerful legs to leap and soar into Sebastian. The leviathan immediately made its own transformation, its head converting into nothing but a dark maw lined with a thousand sharp teeth. Sam clawed deep into the leviathan’s chest with all four paws when he made contact. They slid as they slammed to the floor, Sam coasting on the leviathan’s body beneath him, completely unfazed by the threat of its teeth. Sebastian couldn’t reach Sam’s paws from where the werecat was skewering the trunk of his body.

When they stopped, Dean was there by his side instantly. The werecat swiveled and fixed his gaze on Dean, huge soft eyes so clearly requesting his help. The black trim along Sam’s ears were a continued feature of Sam’s feline face. His nose, eyes, and lips were all bordered by connecting black fur against tawny coloring except for the white fur on either side of his nose where long delicate whiskers sprouted. Dean thought altogether the effect made the werecat look both sorrowful and adorable.

"I've never..." he breathed, reaching out to the fully transformed werecat, a sight he'd never seen before.

Sam made a strikingly feline _ack _sound of urgent irritation and broke him out of his daze. "Right, okay, I know," Dean reassured. He pulled his garrote and spun the string around Sebastian's giant snapping, spitting jaws. He pulled it taut and perhaps sensing his own doom, the creature's human face appeared, red-faced and strained grotesquely with hate.

"You think you can jus-"

Sebastian never finished. Sam seized the opportunity to use his own carnivorous jaws to clamp down on the leviathan's head and rend flesh. Dean immediately tightened on the garrote so it’d help. It sliced through gristle, tendons and ligaments as Sam ripped and tore the creature’s skin and bones.

Sam rumbled deep and low in the back of his throat with such satisfied triumph as the head slowly parted from the body. He gave one last jerk up with his head and it came off entirely. Dean pulled back, heaving, his human form not used to as much sustained injury and exertion. Ordinarily he would’ve shifted awhile ago.

Sam spat Sebastian’s head out of his mouth. It tumbled over the liquor-stained, blood-soaked floor. Dean could tell Sam was grinning. The feline turned back to the decapitated form he was still standing on and actually began kneading Sebastian's chest, watching rapt as black ooze like tar pumped out of its body through its torn, ravaged neck. It poured over the wooden floorboards and seeped between the slats.

Dean looked around. No one was left in the Crystal Room.

"Sammy?"

Sam turned and Dean saw the werecat’s vicious blood lust immediately diminish. He licked his lips and a comically disgruntled expression overcame him before he started frantically spitting and licking his lips trying to get rid of any trace of black leviathan blood around his muzzle and probably in his mouth after what he'd just done.

Dean couldn't help but laugh as he stepped forward into the wild cat's space. He helped, wiping some of it off Sam’s face with his hands. Sam lowered his head and nudged Dean's chest, nearly bowling him over.

"Whoa, Sam, what?"

Sam snaked his head around Dean to sniff at his back, the silver a sharp stench for all weres. His meaning became clear then: Sam wanted Dean to shift so he could heal.

"Okay," Dean muttered, "good idea Sammy," he added, petting Sam on the head. Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head with assent.

Dean quickly took his clothes off and threw them into a lightweight nylon bag he'd stored in his blazer's pocket. He threw it on the stage so he could get it after this whole thing was over. He caught Sam looking at him. "What? I like the suit," he defended.

Sam sneezed and whisked his head side to side.

Dean shifted. His fur was pitch black, cutting an intimidating shape. He was only slightly disappointed to realize Sam was longer than him but he took solace that he was robust where Sam was lithe. He secretly hoped Sam would be heartened by the sight of his powerful were form, would spot a kind of kinship between them in addition to their established alliance.

Instead Sam’s reaction was a departure from anything Dean was anticipating. He was just tilting his head this way and that in complete puzzlement. It was an unmitigated let-down until it dawned upon Dean what it really meant.

It was different to be in were form when it came to communication. It wasn't even close to precise language but rather a running current of meaning passing between them at all times. Always a steady, calm, simple hum of energy. Dean was accustomed to it, having grown up around weres all his life, but Sam had a gobsmacked expression on his face, blinking, whiskers twitching with intense but cautious curiosity.

Dean’s heart ached for Sam as he stepped up to him and stilled, a tacit invitation for the werecat to explore. Sam took it and circled Dean's new form, sniffing it, getting used to this slightly altered scent from his human form and the new energies rippling between them.

Eventually Sam came up along Dean's left flank and nosed against his neck. Dean turned his head and licked between his eyes, then up further between his ears.

Sam purred and nearly toppled Dean over with increased strength nuzzling the wolf.

  


Another explosion rattled the foundations. The two of them looked at the exit to the Crystal Room, looked to each other, and as one they started padding their way out before breaking into a race.

They burst into the kitchen, Sam using the walls and giant chrome tables as launching and landing pads. Sam practically flew around the abandoned kitchen as Dean just jogged along the main stretch of it. He let Sam take his time relishing his form and freedom, moving and stretching every stiff and unused bone and muscle. The renewed delight and strength flowing out of the werecat both inspired Dean and broke his heart. The saving grace was how Sam was also playful though. It wasn’t the first time Dean had seen a bold glint in Sam’s eyes but the irrepressible energy and confidence Sam exhibited now launching around was impossible to deny. It got even more pronounced when they bounded into the main hallway of the gambling floor with only a few disorganized monsters wandering around. With the leviathan leadership beheaded, coordination had ceased. Dean noted one of the deranged creatures drifting around was Ramsay, the creature who’d wanted to witness what he assumed to be Sam’s torture and rape at Dean’s hands.

Sam took one look at Ramsay and practically fired himself at him, knocking the air out of his lungs before swiping, claws fully extended to catch his face, throat, and upper chest. Ramsay gasped then screamed from the floor and Dean took point on the other monsters that heard it and began to swarm in towards the skirmish. Dean made quick work of them as he tried to catch glimpses of Sam’s new “form” of fighting, not sure whether it was impressive or unsettling. The kid was making heavily injurious but not fatal swipes and bats at the skinwalker while it was attempting to flee. After each, Sam would just jump away and settle to watch, whiskers twitching, comically tall ears swiveling to get the best acoustics. Sam was riveted like there was nothing more captivating than the sounds and images of this creature slowly dying under the wounds he was inflicting.

Dean finished with his monsters, biting the throat out of one and eviscerating the other, and focused his attention on Sam and Ramsay. Ramsay was limping heavily, his face bloodied, and clutching his arm as he spewed hateful slurs that would’ve provoked anyone. Undeterred, Sam hunkered down by the wall, adjusting his position side-to-side in pouncing form as Ramsay approached. When he got close enough the werecat sprang into the air over the skinwalker’s head and landed right behind him. Before Ramsay could even turn Sam scratched down the creature’s back scraping bone and then smacked him forward so he’d run face first into the wall. Sam lowered and snuck backwards to watch again. Dean blinked at the agility. He remembered he’d seen domestic cats do this all the time though - usually when stuck in boxes or something. Now Dean couldn’t stop wondering whether Sam liked boxes to play with.

The werecat was still teasing the almost-dead sadist when Dean woofed for Sam to wrap it up. Sam twisted around like a deer in headlights, clearly having lost track of things while he’d been toying with Ramsay. Sam straightened with some measure of happiness, enjoying the mutual flow of energy and communication between them. He strolled up to Ramsay and lifted one paw up, extended a single claw and flicked it across the creature’s throat.

Ramsay gurgled and clutched his neck before collapsing to the floor. Bright red blood spread out from under him, soaking the plush carpet. Sam idly wiped his claws off.

The gambling rooms of the main floor were soundproofed against the pounding house music and the revelry of the dance floor. With no more monsters in the ritzy gambling segment, Dean judiciously led the way to the double doors that’d spill them into the melee on the other side. They couldn’t hear the deep bass of the dance floor like Dean remembered when he first entered this section of the club. The music might’ve shut off once his pack invaded. For all he knew they might still be fighting out there. The main dance floor was after all the largest and densest crowd of clients at the club.

Dean was ready to join the battle but he also needed to reunite with his team, especially Castiel: ever since he’d pulled his comms device and given it to Sam, he’d been dark. He had hoped Cas would make it to the Crystal Room after taking out Tennyson but that didn’t happen and now they still hadn’t crossed paths. Castiel was an angel. Dean still worried.

He shared a meaningful look at Sam before he reached a paw up to open the door. 

“Dean!”

Dean froze then whipped around, relief flooding him at the sight of Cas striding towards them followed instantly by an appreciative once-over of the angel’s new look. Dean was used to the angel’s clashing ensemble of ratty jeans, a tee, and a particularly beloved trench coat. Instead Cas had been outfitted in a silky white tux with black trim and lapels.

Dean startled when Sam’s growls heightened in volume next to him. Cas froze and put his hands up. Sam was still not impressed, his growls turning to threatening hisses as the cat stepped in front of Dean. Protecting him.

Dean stared in disbelief before he got with the program and came up along Sam’s flank, gave a light ‘woof’ and opened himself up for Sam to understand his energy from just the sight of his friend safe and sound. Sam registered it quickly. His menacing behaviors ceased and he sat back up, straight and polite and lowering his head, intense eyes unblinking and curious as Dean bounded up to Castiel.

“It’s safe, Jack- ah!” Cas grunted as Dean hopped on his hind legs and landed his two front on Cas’s shoulders. “Dean, hello,” the angel greeted, standing his ground and petting Dean’s head. Sam would’ve been meowing with mirth at the sight of Dean licking the angel’s face if a stressed-looking teenager hadn’t appeared from around the corner.

Dean angled to see the teen. He thought he’d been justified calling Sam a kid but he’d been so wrong. _This _was a kid. He pulled away from Cas to get a better look. Jack was in rags that probably didn’t keep him warm but at least kept his modesty intact. He looked healthier than Sam, his skin unblemished, face a healthy color. He’d come into the room jumpy and scared but the kid’s whole demeanor changed when he saw Sam. Dean followed his line of sight to discover the werecat was equally pleased and comforted at the sight of him.

“Sam?” Jack whispered, his voice young and hopeful. Sam let out a quick and loud meow before darting over to him. At first Dean thought Sam was about to jump in what Dean now understood to be the werecat’s signature opening move during a fight but he quickly dashed the impression and looked on fondly as Sam slowed, head-butted into Jack’s waist, and fell over onto the floor belly up. Dean couldn’t believe his eyes but Jack just laughed and fell upon Sam, hugging, then playing with the huge cat, talking nonstop how amazing it was to see him free and completely shifted. It jogged Dean’s memory that Sam had mentioned they’d met before they’d been captured and enslaved. Jack recognized Sam’s were form because they’d met when Sam had been free.

Dean didn’t realize he was whining with longing to join in until Cas tapped him on the head. Dean blinked and looked up at the angel. Cas’s lips were pressed together but turning up at the ends clearly trying to suppress a warm smile.

Dean shifted to human form. At this point everyone in the room was inured to nudity. Cas didn’t even blink. “So what took you so long? I was hoping I’d get backup in the Crystal Room.” Dean asked as they watched Sam and Jack reunite from a distance, Dean reluctantly letting them have their moment without him.

“Dean, I still don’t know where the Crystal Room is.”

Dean turned to face Cas with a frown.

“They weren’t in the blue prints?”

“No,” Cas huffed. He deflated at Dean’s expression of surprise. “Dean, you need to do better studying blueprints,” he admonished.

“Noted,” Dean rolled his eyes, trying not to smirk. “You would’ve found me anyway,” he knocked his elbow against Cas.

“I would’ve,” Cas admitted. “I was clearing the lower floors,” he explained grimly. “There’s still much to do.”

“Didn’t get to free anyone?”

Cas pressed his lips together and shook his head, regret crossing his features. “No time. If I had we wouldn’t be meeting here now.”

“They’ll get free, Cas,” Dean reassured, reaching up and squeezing the angel’s shoulder. “We’ll free them. Soon.” Dean let the moment still. “Meanwhile, who dressed you? Man, you’re looking sharp.”

Cas adopted a pinched look, trying to figure out if Dean was joking or sincere. Dean didn’t know how to tell him it was both so he moved on with a wan smile, looking over to see Sam. The werecat had shifted as well and was now sitting on the floor talking quietly to Jack, a burdened expression crossing his features which Dean didn’t like. They stood and Jack took Sam’s proffered hand as they walked over with calm and confidence to rejoin Cas and Dean.

Dean fixed a friendly gaze on Jack and realized he smelled a little bit like Cas. He’d never understand why God gave grace the scent of fresh clean linens but he deeply appreciated it. Then again maybe it was the other way around because angels loved fresh clean linens-?

Dean was pulled out of the silly reverie at Sam’s words.

“Castiel?” Sam asked. Cas nodded and Sam stepped up closer, his arm around the teen's shoulders. “Thank you for getting to Jack.”

Dean looked over. He knew Cas had to be bursting with questions and requests to spend more time with the nephilim but he was restraining himself.

“Don’t mention it,” Cas said.

“Jack told me you’ve cleared the lower floors. He’s going to go down and start freeing the creatures he knows might help us,” Sam informed.

Cas shook his head. “That’s not necessary. Jack can stay with us-”

“I want Jack safe,” Sam interrupted, his eyes glowing. Dean winced. He didn’t like this. Something seemed off. Jack was biting his lip and avoiding eye contact, ducked down and leaning heavily against Sam.

“All right,” Cas sighed and shrugged, letting it go. Castiel had become so flexible since they’d first met. Usually Dean loved it but not so much right now, not when something was obviously amiss. But before Dean could object with a fully formed argument, Sam nodded to Jack, Jack returned the gesture and then he just took off jogging back the way they’d come.

Castiel’s brows furrowed. Dean shot Sam a questioning look. How could they reunite only to willingly split up a second later? Sam flitted his eyes away though, denying Dean any insight he could’ve gathered from the werecat’s expression.

“So now, what’s the plan?” Sam asked nervously. “We, uh… we shift and take down whatever’s left on the dance floor?” He folded his arms over his chest, holding himself stiffly.

Cas tapped his ear because unlike Dean the angel hadn’t had to part with his comms, and contacted Fahrenheit. In the meantime Dean studied Sam. He could tell the werecat was distraught but repressing it. Dean didn’t get it. There was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be burdened by anymore. Sam was so cagey that maybe Dean needed to say something now, really spell it out for him.

Dean was reaching for Sam’s hand when Castiel got off comms and turned to address them.

“Fahrenheit reports the battle is still ongoing behind those doors. We are needed.”

Dean nodded, disheartened he couldn’t take a minute for Sam like he’d wanted. Sam wasted no time and shifted. He padded over to the doors and pressed his long ears to the cracks. He turned back to the werewolf and angel expectantly.

Dean shared a meaningful look with Cas before stepping up. Cas wasn’t a were but Dean and him had developed their own shorthand. As much as they both wanted to figure Sam and Jack out, the Marrow Pack needed them out there.

Dean shifted and walked alongside Castiel as the angel stepped up to the doors. Sam flanked Cas to the right.

Dean raised his hackles and started growling, eyes blazing, pawing the carpet. Sam did the same but in a wildly different fashion. Pure feline predator, he went silent as night and crouched low to the floor, ears back, deep wide eyes burning in anticipation.

  


As Castiel raised his hands to open the doors using his powers, Sam crept up keeping pace at Cas’s heels while Dean bristled and broadened as he swaggered alongside Cas.

Energy emitted from the angel’s hands, a light white mist that Dean knew only weres could see. The particles floated for a moment as Cas gathered the grace. With a flick of his wrists they fired out and shattered the ornate double doors. All three stepped forward, the tasteful Victorian era gambling room framing and lighting up their silhouettes for a moment before the pandemonium on the dance floor reached them.

Things were disorienting at first, the strobe lights shafting on a new fight no matter where they spun, screams of rage and agony from men and women alike rented the air, and the house music was still playing but it’d been damaged somehow, jarringly playing the same low-fi chords over and over again that set Dean’s teeth on edge. He watched a demon run at Castiel. Sam moved to defend but Dean directed his energy towards Sam warning him against it. Sam accepted it and backed down. He watched with wide, shocked eyes as Castiel simply pressed his palm against the thing’s forehead and light shone forth out of its eyes and mouth in agony. Mesmerized, Sam’s head moved down in comical tandem with the demon’s burnt-out body collapsing when it was over. He looked back up at Castiel with exhilaration having seen firsthand now how powerful angels could be.

All three turned back to face the melee. An incubus raced towards Cas and Dean launched himself at it the same time another couple demons rushed up from behind. Cas took care of them as Sam eyed the leviathan running towards the three of them carrying a familiar clipboard. Using the walls to build speed and practically break the rules of physics, Sam found himself landing heavily onto Sheldon’s back to take him down. From where Dean stood it looked like it was play time again. Sam bit into the creature’s arm and, plainly uncaring if it’d rip off or not, used the appendage to swing him up in the air and then whip him back down onto the floor. Dean could make out the satisfying sound of bones cracking on impact.

Dean continued to fight his share but he also found time to revel in Sam’s brutal and categorically feline methods of retribution. When any other creature interfered with the werecat and Sheldon, Sam had no trouble flinging them all over the floor even as far as the opposite wall some three hundred feet. Some monsters Sam kept close though, keeping them around to ‘play with’ while Sheldon was temporarily down. Dean suspected those monsters were getting their comeuppance just as Sheldon was. Dean inwardly cheered for Sam, feeling the waves of energy from the werecat emitting nothing but grim exhilaration and catharsis.

That was when all hell broke loose though and a surprisingly coordinated surge of dragons, blue fire streaming from their arms and eyes, pulled themselves from the shadowed enclaves of the club to descend upon the main dance floor.

Dean lost track of everyone as the Marrow Pack fought tooth and nail under the onslaught. It wasn’t ideal but after everything Dean knew Sam was one of the best fighters he’d ever seen, certainly on par with himself and Castiel. He wasn’t worried. He just wanted it over.

So when it was over and they couldn’t find Sam or Jack, that was a problem.


	6. Fog Rolls in at Dawn

  


Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a working vehicle. He was in the far back corner, the fourth bench seat of a family-style van crammed with newly freed and shell-shocked survivors of the Cheyenne Club. It was quiet with trauma, men and women whispering and crying quietly as they softly moved around to get comfortable. Sam had his arm around Jack who’d fallen aphonic and clammy against him. Everything was damp: around four in the morning it had begun to shower and it still drizzled. Sam just gazed at the seat back in front of him. It was worn and stretched out leather the color of granite with a faint odor of mildew.

Sam shifted in his seat, pulled and tugged on the light blue scrubs he’d been given, pushed his hair over his face as much as he could to hide it. He closed his eyes to lose himself in the light rain splashing over the roof and windows, the heat rushing in through the van’s vents, the rhythmic windshield wipers flipping back and forth. The wipers in particular were like a pendulum in a clock counting down to when someone would get behind the wheel of their van and deliver them to a human camp. From there Sam and Jack would make their escape. They would go back to scavenging the husks of empty and destroyed towns and cities.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to himself with resolve.

At least he’d have Jack.

_"Sam, I touched Castiel. I saw his intentions. He wants to take me away."_

_"What? Where?"_

_"Separate, different from where everybody else is going. Sam, please. I wanna stay with you," Jack beseeched, tugging Sam’s arm._

_"Okay, okay Jack. We'll figure it out. Give me a second." Sam twisted, looking for Dean. The werewolf was talking to the angel, standing at ease, a smile playing on his face. Sam felt the most shallow pangs of jealousy. It was a useless sentiment now. He’d never get more time with Dean again because as far as he could see his only two options were to escape with Jack or risk losing him to wherever Castiel wanted to take him. Since Dean and Castiel were such allies - even good friends, it seemed - Sam could hardly believe Dean would turn on the angel just so Sam could keep Jack._

_There was no competition. Jack came first. Sam blinked through the tears that threatened to spill. He couldn't spare them when he had to think fast and figure out how to get them away._

_"Okay. We have to split up," Sam concluded._

Sam and Jack were passing well as humans so far, all the real humans who knew them were nodding along and willing to keep their secret. It was the first time Sam and Jack had realized how much they’d been respected and appreciated by the other innocents imprisoned and enslaved.

Sam pulled a dry protein bar out of a plastic bag of snacks that was getting passed around. He wiped his eyes with his palm and started unwrapping it. He tugged on Jack’s raggedy hood as the kid shivered and snugged in closer. Sam squeezed him tight and let his gaze drift down to the van’s floor, wet with mud and pebbles, ineffective foot mats strewn all around more likely to trip people than anything. He took a bite of the protein bar and it was the most delicious thing he’d had in three years.

_"What?” Jack croaked. “No, we’re not splitting up! I just got you-”_

_“Jack, listen to me. Get down to the north wing with the humans and stay there. When they come to free you, I’ll find you.”_

_Jack shook his head frantically, his eyes tearing up. "Sam, just come with me. Please."_

_"I can't. I won't," Sam swallowed. He opened his mouth to explain why but stopped, locking up over what to say. Sam _wanted _this battle. Deep inside him surfacing along with his freedom Sam was craving to annihilate these wicked, perverse bastards that had enslaved them for years. He yearned to raze this complex down until it was nothing but a hopeless blackened smoking crater as deep as the bunker could go._

_But he couldn't tell Jack. Jack was too brave and eager; he’d be too fast to agree, too fast to claim that was what he wanted too. Sam knew he didn’t though. Jack held a curiously small capacity for vengeance and anyway Sam wanted Jack safe._

_"I… I need to find Ruby," Sam lied. It was plausible though. Ruby was a slave and the two of them had been easy on each other. Then she'd betrayed him to a client named Lucifer. Sam suppressed a shiver at the memory. Luckily the client had never returned. Sam and Ruby had never spoken again._

_Jack had no idea about any of that though. Sam never told him what happened._

_"I… still care about her. I’ll make sure she’s okay and then I’ll come to you wherever you are. I promise, Jack."_

_Jack clenched his jaw, eyes watery but determined._

_“Okay,” Jack gritted out._

_"Okay," Sam replied. He cupped the side of Jack’s face reassuringly. “Good.”_

_It still struck Sam how Jack was still more a child than anything. How he’d managed to keep that innocence in this environment was a miracle. Maybe that was the nephilim in him._

_When Jack left, Sam knew he’d be safe and that was the only thing giving him solace now because he could barely look at Castiel or Dean knowing he and Jack would be taking off to live as they had before. Living off the scraps and debris of a near-decimated species’ haunted dwellings. Living like Dean had never happened to Sam, like Dean hadn’t so strongly reminded him of his kin and home for the first time in seventeen years. Sam hadn’t known how much hope Dean had been building in him since they met. Now that it was taken from him, he knew._

_Sam’s eyes brimmed with tears. He quickly shifted into his feline form. _

_They still had a job to do._

Once the fighting was essentially over in the club, Sam had slinked away outside to prowl the periphery of the parking lot along the edge of the woods that surrounded the compound. He patiently waited for the survivors to file out so he could find Jack and reunite. He found himself bearing witness to a totally unexpected scene as a result.

His night vision helped him watch in awe as the parking lot filled with emergency and transport vehicles overflowing with people - mostly weres, Sam surmised with his snout - wearing reflective orange and yellow vests. They hastily raised giant canopies in the rain. The finished ones had workers setting up collapsible hard plastic tables underneath the tarps, other workers carried boxes upon boxes of relief items to throw on them. A few workers were going from box to box ripping them open and tipping them over to spill their contents onto the tables so people could quickly identify and grab whatever they needed. The strong scent of wet canine musk wafted out leaving Sam both amused and aching to be reminded of Dean in such a tangible way.

Mud was already getting everywhere and by the time survivors began streaming out of the club’s main entrance, all the workers had been drenched by moon-kissed rain.

The first twenty or so survivors came out squinting and stumbling over the muddy gravel on bare feet, holding their hands up against all the flashing lights not knowing what to do or what was expected of them. None of them spoke or fussed. They just stopped short of the help before them, all standing shaking in the predawn rain. They were a medley of scents, the most prominent one a sour tang of fear and despair lifting off with the wind. Sam shuddered as he remembered having that smell on him too.

Tears fell unbidden as Sam watched the medics and aids descend upon them with such delicate care, approaching them with open arms and soft words of reassurance, promises of safety as they placed blankets around their shoulders and guided them to an ambulance or a tent to get food, clean water, shoes, and whatever else. Sam was overwhelmed to witness it, to see the kindness he’d seen in Dean only on a scale like this. He’d never thought he was much of a cynic but he never would’ve believed this if anyone had told him it existed. He caught sight of Jack coming out and searching the darkness of the woods, trying to see past the heavy fog.

Sam shifted and stumbled towards the camp, intent to get to Jack.

“Hey kiddo, easy now,” an older man’s voice rumbled and Sam looked up, startled. They were on the edge of the camp. The man was slightly out of breath and Sam figured the man had spotted him and run over to help. He was wearing a heavy knit sweater, jeans and a ball cap, all of which smelled like a sanctuary of whiskey, books, and automotive steel. “My name’s Bobby, can you come with me? We’ll get some clothes on ya, son,” he reached his hand out. Sam’s faced screwed up and nodded, limply taking Bobby’s hand. He wept quietly as he let Bobby lead him to a tent, let himself be the traumatized victim for just a few minutes as they clothed him and wrapped him in a thick wool blanket that he gripped against his chest with white knuckles.

He couldn’t believe it was all over. And he couldn’t believe after seeing all this - all the resources Dean and his pack had, all the generosity and compassion - Sam was just going to abandon it.

But Jack was more important.

Sam sniffed and regained composure as much as he could. He was like a ghost rising up from where he’d been seated. It was so chaotic nobody stopped him from leaving the tent and he barely registered Amethyst entering, her red eyes bright with devastated tears too.

Sam found Jack and the kid had latched on to him like a magnet, refusing to pull away, and Sam didn’t mind in the least. Jack was warm and stabilizing and as long as Sam could focus on his protective instincts for Jack he wouldn’t have to break down any further than he already had.

Everyone was so dazed and susceptible that nobody objected to the glaring red flag of getting shuffled into groups by species. Luckily the pack was transparent and honest, reassuring everyone it was so they could go to the right species camps that’d take care of them properly. Sam and Jack got confirmed as humans with the human survivors’ help and they’d ended up herded into this minivan. Twenty minutes later more members of the Marrow Pack visited the van to pass out additional relief items. Bags of bottled water and nutrient bars, more shock blankets and clothing.

Jack had to lean away from Sam for a second while Sam threw on another shirt. He was still chilly despite the heat from the vents. He resumed eating the protein bar, its taste still incredible.

Just then two heavy knocks on the van’s door startled those near it before it clicked and slid open.

“Sorry, sorry,” the good-natured voice called. Sam looked up and realized it was Bobby. The man was scanning everyone starting at the front. “Okay uh, you,” he pointed at a guy in the second bench seat, “you, you,” he picked two on the third seat, “and,” Bobby dragged out until he spotted Sam in the far corner, “you. Could y’all come out of the van for a second?”

“Why?” a guy up front asked and Sam was relieved he didn’t have to bring attention to himself to ask the same thing.

“We’ve got some records mixed up with your profiles,” Bobby replied easily and held up a clipboard with papers on it, damp with morning dew and spilled coffee. “It’ll only take a minute. I’m sorry, but please.” Bobby gestured to the space outside.

Sam obeyed with the rest of them. As he struggled to lift from his seat while still crouched low as tall as he was, Jack clutched his arm.

“Okay, it’ll be okay,” Sam whispered and Jack nodded, letting go. Last minute Sam felt the wool blanket drape over his head and back.

“Thanks Jack,” Sam whispered, grabbing the ends and wrapping them around him as he picked his way past legs, newly emptied water bottles and snack wrappers scattering the vehicle’s muddy floor.

Bobby offered his hand and Sam took it for balance, trusting the guy who’d been there at his weakest so far.

Or really, he’d been the second man, Sam reminded himself with a pang. He hadn’t seen Dean once since the dance floor and he had no idea whether that was good or bad. Maybe Dean had second thoughts; wouldn’t even want to see him now he’d seen how savage Sam could be.

Sam jumped down onto the gravel of the club's parking lot and looked around. The sun had technically risen but it remained a dark gray chilly morning, now so thick with fog that Sam couldn't even make out nearby vehicles or tents. He wasn't the only one having trouble with the low visibility. Flashlight beams were everywhere, people still needing and using them to get around in the dense mist.

“Hm,” Bobby grunted, looking down at Sam’s feet, “you need shoes.”

Sam looked at the others and realized they all had some kind of protection on their feet. He shrugged. Bobby’s eyes narrowed and Sam realized his mistake: humans were a lot more sensitive. Sam’s anxiety ratcheted up but he just kept his eye contact still and steady on Bobby’s. He couldn’t betray a thing or everything was blown. He’d lose Jack.

Bobby pressed his lips together then turned to the other guys. He went through to confirm their names and they got back into the van until he reached Sam again. Sam held his breath, somehow just knowing Bobby was going to address him differently.

"Didn’t get your name - you left the tent before I could.”

Sam nodded. “I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, son,” he assured and then left it there.

“It’s uh, it’s Dante, William Dante,” Sam coughed. Bobby frowned with approval, jotted something down on his clipboard. “Got it,” he replied lightly, setting it on top of the van. “I’m gonna go get you some shoes.

“Oh no, you don’t have-”

“Stop, please,” the man interrupted, his voice authoritative but measured. “You want anything else? Food, water, blankets? Coffee, maybe?" 

Sam shook his head. "No, no, I'm fine," he gulped. “Thank… thank you.” Sam looked him in the eyes now, sincere gratitude coloring them. Bobby gave a sympathetic half-smile in return.

"Okay," Bobby shrugged. “I’ll be just a minute. Take it easy,” he soothed before turning on his heel. The guy had a heavy gait but left at a quick clip, his bouncing flashlight the last thing to get swallowed up by the fog.

"Okay," Sam murmured, fragile but stable enough. Sam gripped the edges of his blanket tight against his chest. He watched his breath go white as he exhaled into the cool air. He was considering getting back in the van again when he heard the sound of his name, this time by a voice he recognized.

"Sam? Sammy?!"

Sam gasped and stepped backwards against the van. Conflicted, Sam just froze and watched with mounting apprehension. A flashlight beam waved wildly through the fog, its owner obviously running and then Dean emerged, Bobby trailing behind him. 

"Dean?" Sam whispered, his eyes watering, the color leeching from his face.

“Sam!” Dean breathed, racing up to him but Sam shied away, clutching his blanket and leaning up closer against the van. Dean had changed clothes to jeans and a Zeppelin band t-shirt, feet bare like Sam’s though.

“No, don’t…” Sam begged, looking at Dean’s outstretched hands welcoming the hug that Sam wished he could accept.

Dean stilled then pulled back graciously.

“Sammy, why’d you leave? Why’re you here with the humans?” Dean asked, raising his arm to the van. His voice was pitched like he was pleading, vulnerable, and it brought tears to Sam’s eyes. He clenched his jaw and shook his head. Dean stepped forward and gripped Sam’s elbows. “Sam.”

Sam took a deep breath and looked into Dean’s eyes. “I can’t let the angel take Jack away from me.”

Dean’s imploring expression didn’t change from what it’d been. He just stared at Sam dumbly as Sam could practically see the wheels turning in his head before his features scrunched into pure confusion.

“Sam,” Dean winced, “what?” He flicked his head in bafflement.

Sam’s eyes glowed with irritation at that. He latched on to the emotion to anchor him. Annoyance served him better than incoherent tears.

“Jack touched Castiel to read his intentions.”

“Yeah,” Dean dragged out, “I follow.”

“Castiel’s intentions were good but after this, Jack could tell Castiel wanted to take Jack away.”

Dean shook his head, bewildered. “Away where?”

“I don’t know,” Sam shouted, shoving Dean back. “Away from me!”

“Sam,” Dean pressed, “no. We’d never…” Dean trailed off. “Hold on.” Dean closed his eyes.

A light sound of flapping wings and suddenly, “Yes, I believe I could be of some assistance here too,” Castiel announced as he walked towards Dean. Just then the van’s sliding door opened and Jack jumped out.

“I just saw,” he said grimly, pointing at the tinted window from the van. He stepped forward past Sam and faced Cas, strong and unshakable. “I’m not going with you, Castiel.”

Sam covered his face with his hands and shook his head, trying to wrap his head around this stand-off. Could they run now? They’d be tracked by well over fifty werewolf aid workers. Could they surrender, get carted away separately and escape later to rendezvous at an agreed upon location? If that were the case Sam should hint the location to Jack right now before they’re separat-

“Dean and I live together in a house on the Marrow Packlands. We want both of you to stay with us. For however long you would like to stay with us. We don’t want to separate the two of you. Ever.”

Sam’s hands fell away and he stood there, mouth agape. Jack shuffled his feet uncertainly, looked back to Sam and when Sam had nothing but surprise written on his face, back to the angel.

“Touch me again. You can tell if these intentions are genuine that way.” Castiel extended his arm, still dressed in his white silk suit now spattered everywhere with mud. It felt like a sign to Sam, that Castiel so readily destroyed his immaculate, expensive suit - the kind of suits Sam’s captors and clients valued so highly - just to help in the mud with the rest of the aid workers.

Sam watched Jack cautiously wrap his hand around the angel’s and started praying to Luna Castiel was telling the truth. Cas’s eyes darted up to Sam’s. 

“He’s praying,” Castiel whispered sideways to Dean and Sam startled, not knowing Cas could hear prayers much less his own as a were. Dean went rigid and Sam could practically taste the urgency to reach for him, to hold him. Sam pressed his lips together, trying hard to keep it together because he wanted that too.

“Yeah, you… you really do want that,” Jack pronounced, disbelief evident in his tone.

“I didn’t know about Sam, either that he was a werecat whom Dean was planning to bring back to the Marrow Pack or that he was so close to you that you’d want him to accompany you wherever you went after this. I’m sure this is why you were under the impression I would take you and only you away from the other survivors.”

Sam let out a repressed sob just as Dean stepped forward and pulled Sam into his arms, wrapping the werecat in the tightest, safest hug, whispering a litany of so many promises of shelter and care that Sam’s throat closed up and he finally let go.

He didn’t even realize he was half-shifting claws out of the tips of his fingers to clutch Dean tighter. Dean clutched back. “I’ve got you. You’re okay, Sammy. Everything’s gonna be all right, sweetie.”

Sam nuzzled into Dean’s neck for his scent: mountain air and petrichor… with amusing hints of beer, dark chocolate and sweet cherries. 

  


Sam gave a wet laugh. Without a doubt things were going to get complicated again but not in this moment. In _this _moment everything was easy, effortless.

Sam leaned back to look at the werewolf. Their smiles were brilliant, their eyes radiant.

_Fin_

  
[ ](https://i.imgur.com/lhKXKeu.png)

**Author's Note:**

> To see all MidnightSilver's amazing artwork for this fic, click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068466)
> 
> For my favorite animal transformation fics, click [here](https://fogsrollingin.tumblr.com/post/188797923408/) 😊
> 
> Thank you so much for reading - please kudos+comment if you've got a minute! ❤️️


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